IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  {MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


|50      '""^ 


12.5 
2.0 


1.8 


U    iii  1.6 


V] 


v) 


% 


o 


^;j 


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Photographic 

Sdences 

Corporation 


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CIHM/ICM 
Microfiche 
Series. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microrep 


MH 

e 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


oreproductions  /  Institut  canadien  de  microreproductions  historiques 


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L'Institut  a 
qu'il  lui  a  6 
de  cet  exer 
point  de  vu 
une  image 
modificatic 
sont  indiqu 


D 


D 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommagt&s 


Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
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□   Colou 
Pages 

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Pages 

□Pages 
Pages 

r-l^ages 
Itn    Pages 

□Pages 
Pages 

I     1/Show 
LM  Trans 


□    Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


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□    Indue 
Comp 

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Seule 


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slips, 

ensur 

Les  pi 

obscu 

etc. 

obten 


D 


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10X  14X  18X  22X 


7 

12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


)ues  et  bibliographiques 


tut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
li  a  it6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-dtre  uniques  du 
ie  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
lage  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
cation  dans  la  mithode  normale  de  filmage 
idiquds  ci-dessous. 

}oloured  pages/ 
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*ages  endommagdes 

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'ages  restaurdes  et/ou  pellicul^es 

•ages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
'ages  ddcolordes,  tachet^es  ou  piqu^es 

'ages  detached/ 
•ages  ddtachdes 

ihowthrough/ 
'ransparence 

luality  of  print  varies/ 
lualiti  indgale  de  I'impression 

icludes  supplementary  material/ 
lomprend  du  materiel  suppl^mentaire 

)nly  edition  available/ 
ieule  Edition  disponible 

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nsure  the  best  possible  image/ 
es  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
bscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
tc,  ont  it6  filmdes  &  nouveau  de  fagon  d 
btenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


26X 

30X 

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to  the  generosity  of: 

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Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmei 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  r>n 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres 
sion,  or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  ^^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED 'I,  or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


24X 


28X 


32X 


bean  reproduced  thanks 


Public  Library 


L'exemplaire  film*  fut  reproduit  grAce  A  la 
ginArositi  da: 

Vancouver  Public  Library 


a  are  the  bast  quality 
:ondition  and  legibility 
n  keeping  with  the 
tions. 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  At6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettetA  de  l'exemplaire  filmi,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


paper  covers  are  filmed 
cover  and  ending  rn 
ed  or  illustrated  impres- 
hen  appropriate.  All 
'ilmed  beginning  on  the 
)r  illustrated  impres- 
ist  page  with  a  printed 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimAe  sont  film6s  en  commen^ant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
derniire  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  salon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmAs  en  commengant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


>n  each  microfiche 
^^  (meaning  "CON- 
y  (meaning  "END"), 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  salon  le 
can:  le  symbole  — *>  signifie  "A  SUIVRE".  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 


may  be  filmed  at 
Those  too  large  to  be 
xposure  are  filmed 
ft  hand  corner,  left  to 
as  many  frames  as 
iagrams  illustrate  the 


Les  cartes,  plar^ches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
film6s  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diffirents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  cliche,  ii  est  film6  A  partir 
de  Tangle  supirieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  n^cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m^thode. 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

DONOHUE  &  HENNEBERRY 
PRINTERS  AND  BINDERS 


w 


1  '  t 


*,,    l"   '" 


'.VU^ 


THE  TENTS  OF  SHEM 

Bv    GRANT    ALLEN, 

Author  •/  •*r*fj  Mortal  Coil,"  *'Thi  DeviVt  Di$,"  etc. 


OHAPTEB  L 


01  TBS  DABS  CONTINENT. 


Two  young  men  of  most  Britannic  aspect  lat  lounging 
together  in  long  wicker  chairs,  on  the  balcony  of  the  English 
Club  at  Algiers.  They  had  much  reason.  It  was  one  of  those 
glorious  days,  by  no  mean:?  rdye.«VhGi>the  sky  and  climate  of 
the  city  on  the  Sahe/i'joaJctfteiRmufej)<jrfe&'fit)n  The  wisteria 
was  draping  the'yaVitpo'frOf  the.  halpo^'y  witK/it^i'.^rofuse  tresses 
of  rich  amethyst  blo'ssom ;  tljft'Uong  and  sweeping  semicircle 
of  the  bay  gleiinjq^  .lilte  jjk  pea*c?odk[tf'neck  in  hue,  or  a  brilliant 
opal  with  i%&  ih4iiig^f|il  iCrid'(38c*9ncar4»d:the'>sr)Cw,rc}ad  peaks 
•f  the  Djarjura  ixt  ske.  bwckgroTj.nd-  c^^SQ'  i^ig?^',  iii  'he  air, 
glistening  whi!<e  and  pink  in  the  reflected  glory  of  the  after- 
noon sun.  But  the  two  young  men  of  Britannic  aspect, 
gazing  grimly  in  front  of  them,  made  no  comment  to  one 
another  on  the  beauty  and  variety  of  that  basking  scene. 
How  could  they,  indeed  ?  They  had  no*^  been  introduced  to 
one  anothft^r  I  To  admire  nature,  however  obtrusive,  in  com- 
pany with  a  man  to  whom  you  have  not  been  introduced  is  a 
social  solecism.  So  they  sat  and  lounged,  and  stroked  their 
moustaches  reflectively,  and  looked  at  the  paim-trees,  and  the 
orange-groves,  and  the  white  Moorish  villas  that  stud  the 
steep,  smiling  slopes  of  Mustapha  Superieur,  in  the  solemn 
silence  of  the  true-'born  Englishman. 

They  might  have  sat  there  forever  and  said  nothing  (in 
which  case  the  world  must  certainly  have  lost  this  present 
narrative)  had  ,not  the  felt  presence  of  a  Common  Want 
impelled  t!)Gm  at  last  spasmodicrally  to  a  conversational  effort. 

**  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  do  you  happen  to  have  a  light 

316725 


Mil 


10 


rim  nxm  ot  ihxm. 


tl^oal  J9%T'  tht  elder  of  the  two  flaid,  in  tn  apologetie  Tofe«, 
rawing  a  cigar,  as  he  spoko,  from  the  neat  little  morocco- 

se  in  his  pocket. 

"  Curious,  but  I  was  jnst  going  to  aak  tou  the  very  same 
thing,"  bis  younger  cuntpanioo  answered,  with  a  bashful 
•iiniU.  "  I've  iinished  my  last  vesuvian.  Suppose  we  go 
into  the  smoking-room  unJ  look  for  a  match.  Can  70Q  tell 
me  where,  in  this  abode  of  luxury,  the  smoking-room  finds 
itself  f" 

"  Why,  I  hav'nt  yet  investigated  the  question,"  the  other 
replied,  rising  from  his  seat  as  he  spoke,  "  but  I'm  open  to 
conviction.     Let's  go  and  see.     My  trade's  exploring." 

♦•  Then  I  take  it  for  granted  you're  a  new-comer,  like 
myself,  as  you  don't  know  your  way  about  the  club-rooms 

yetf" 

"You  put  your  finger  plump  on  the  very  point,"  the  elder 
answered,  opening  a  door  on  tlie  left  in  search  of  the  common 
need.  '•  The  fact  is,  I  arrived  in  Algiers  only  yesterday 
evening." 

"  Another  coincidence  I     Precisely  my  case.     I  crossed  by 

the  smoking- 
'f.     Thanks, 
do  you  feel 
to-day,  after  CliAi  terrible  jouF)f(5y?" 

The  elder  Briton  smiled, a  {?otnpwJiat,  prira  Ri?d;  restraine«l 
smile.  .IJe*Y^as;t'9,Il-^:'it).Cair,  but' ujikli.bVftiike^  w\;th  tlie  sun 
"  Never  )jiad'9tui5h  h  ihf.sm'^*inn:U  M-  fif^'bti-fore*,'"  h6  answered. 
quietly.  "A  horrid  voyage.  Swayi)ig  to  and  fro  from  sidt 
to  side  till  I  thought  I  should  fall  olT.  and  be  lost  to  Inunanity 
Talk  of  the  good  ship  phiiiLritig  on  the  sea  indeed,  as  The» 
Marzials  does  in  that  rollicking  song  of  his  ;  any  other  shi] 
I  ever  sailed  on's  the  nuTest  trille  to  it." 

"And  when  did  you  hmve  Knglatid?"  his  nompanion  weni 
on,  with  a  poUte  desire,  commendable  in  youth,  to  keep  up 
the  successfully  inauguratcil  conversation.     "  Von  weren't  O' 
the  Abd-el-Kader  witli  us  from  Maiseilles  on  Tuesday." 

••  When    did    I    leave    I'ngland  ?"    the    new     acip.iaintanc 
answered,   with   a  faint    twinkle   in   Ins  eye.   amused   at  tli. 
chance  of  a  momentary  mystification.      "  I   left   l'',iif.:laTid  las  . 
October,    and  I've  been  ever  since  getting  to  Al^'urs      /'' 
vario$  caius,  per  tot  di^c)-i>ni.n<i  ret  urn," 

•'Goodness,  gracious  I  By  what  route?"  the  youth  witi 
the    d&rk    moustache    inguirud.    diotruiiting    i\\ti    I.aiiU,    mid 


tttft  TtNtI  et  iBlM. 


11 


i 


v'afjnely  auspecting  some  wily  attempt  to  practise  apon  his 
vtiUiler  yeara  and  credulity. 

"  By  the  land-route  from  Tunis,  back  of  the  desert,  via 
•  Wskra  and  Laghouat." 

••  i)ut  I  thought  you  said  you'd  had  such  an  awful  tossing  ?" 

"  bo  I  did.  Never  felt  such  a  tossing  in  the  world  before. 
Hni  it  v/asn  I  the  sea  ;  it  was  the  ship  of  the  desert.  I  came 
liere,  as  far  as  Dlidah  at  least,  true  Arab-wise,  see-saw,  on 
oamel-back." 

The  dark  young  man  puffed  away  at  his  weed  for  a  moment 
vigorously,  in  deep  contemplation.  He  was  a  shy  person  who 
didn't  like  to  be  taken  in  ;  and  he  strongly  suspected  his  new 
acquaintance  of  a  desire  to  humbug  him.  "  What  were  you 
doing  ?"  he  asked  at  last,  in  a  more  constrained  voice,  after  a 
short  pause. 

"  Picking  flowers,"  was  the  curt  and  unexpected  answer. 

'♦  Oh,  come  now,  you  know,"  the  dark  young  man  expos- 
tulated, with  a  more  certain  tone,  for  he  felt  he  was  being 
hoaxed.  "  A  fellow  doesn't  go  all  the  way  to  the  desert,  of 
all  places  in  the  world,  just  for  nothing  else  but  to  pick 
flowers." 

"  Excuse  me,  a  fellow  does,  if  he  happens  to  be  a  fellow  in 
the  flower  and  beetle  business,  which  is  exactly  my  own 
humble  but  useful  avocation." 

••  Why,  surely,  there  aren't  any  flowers  there.  Nothing  but 
sand,  and  sunset,  and  skeletons." 

"  Pardon  me.  I've  been  there  to  see.  Allow  me  to  show 
you.  I'll  just  go  and  fetch  that  portfolio  over  there."  And 
he  opened  it  in  the  sunlight.  '*  Here  are  a  few  Uttle  water- 
colour  sketches  of  my  desert  acquaintances." 

The  dark  young  man  glanced  at  them  with  some  languid 
curiosity.  An  artist  b>  trade  himself,  here  at  least  he  knew 
his  ground.  He  quaked  and  trembled  before  no  dawdling 
amateur.  Turning  over  the  first  two  or  three  sheets  atten- 
tively, 

"  Well,  you  can-draw,"  he  said  at  last,  after  a  brief  scru- 
tiny. "  I  don't  know  whether  flowers  like  those  grow  in  the 
desert  or  not — I  should  rather  bet  on  not,  of  the  two — but 
I'm  a  painter  myself,  and  I  know  at  any  rate  you  can  paint 
them  excellently,  as  amateurs  go." 

*•  My  one  accomplishment,"  the  explorer  answered,  with  a 
pleased  expansion  of  the  comers  of  his  mouth  ; — it  is  human 
to  receive  approbation  «ruteiuU\  i'rom  thoae  whr  know      "  J 


11 


VBK   TKMiTg  09  fHIM. 


W  ' 


oouldn'l  sketch  a  scene  or  draw  a  figure  with  tolerable  aeon- 
rao>  to  save  my  life  ;  but  I  understand  the  birds,  and  creep- 
ing chings,  and  (lowers ;  and  sympathy,  I  suppose,  makes  mc- 
draw  them  at  least  sympathetically." 

'•  Precisely  so.  That's  the  very  word,"  the  artist  went  on, 
examining  each  drawing  he  turned  over  with  more  and  more 
care.  "  Though  your  technique's  amateurish,  of  course,  1  can 
see  you  know  the  flowers,  their  tricks  and  their  manners, 
down  to  the  very  ground.  But  tell  me  now  ;  do  these  things 
really  grow  in  the  desert  ?" 

"  On  the  oases,  yes.  The  flowers  there  are  quite  brilliant 
and  abundant.  Like  the  Alpine  flora,  they  seem  to  grow 
loviihest  near  their  furthest  limit.  Butterfly-fertilised.  But 
what  brings  you  to  Alf3:eria  so  late  in  tiie  season  ?  All  the 
rest  of  the  world  is  turning  its  bade  now  upon  Africa,  and 
hurrying  awayto  Aix-les-Bains,  and  Biarritz,  and  Switzer- 
land, and  England.  You  and  I  will  be  the  only  people,  bar 
Arabs  and  Frenchmen  (who  don't  count),  left  here  for  the 
Bummer." 

"  What,  are  you  going  to  stop  the  summer  here  too  ?" 

"  Well,  not  in  Algiers  itself,"  the  explorer  answered,  flick- 
In  us  boot  with  his  cane  for  an  imaginary  dust-spot.  ••  I've 
bet.  baked  enough  in  the  desert  for  the  last  six  months  to 
cooV.  a  turtle,  and  I'm  going  over  yonder  now,  where  ices 
grow  free,  for  coolness  and  refreshment."  And  he  waved  his 
hand,  with  a  sweep  across  the  sapphire  semicircle  of  the 
glassy  bay,  to  the  great  white  block  of  rearin^^'  mountains 
that  rose  witli  their  sheet  of  virgin  snow  against  the  pro- 
found azure  of  an  African  sky  in  the  far  background. 

"  What,  to  Kabylie  1"  the  artist  exclaimed,  with  a  start  of 
■urprise. 

"  To  Kabylie,  yes.  The  very  place.  You've  learnt  its 
name  and  itb  fame  already  then  ?" 

"  Why,  I  see  in  this  the  finger  of  fate,"  the  artist  an- 
swered, with  more  easy  confidence.  *•  We  have  here  in  fact 
a  third  conicidence.  It's  in  Kabylie  that  I,  too,  have  decided 
cij  -spending  the  summer.  Perhaps,  as  you  seem  to  know  the 
way,  we  might  manage  to  start  on  our  tour  together." 

•'  But  what  are  you  going  for?"  the  elder  man  continued, 
with  an  amused  air. 

"  Oh.  jii  t.  to  paint.  Nothing  more  than  that.  The  coun- 
tr  '\(i  rat  leonle  :  new  ground  for  the  exhibitions.  Spain's 
usba  u]j,  -'  souiu  feiiows  in  En^jland  who  know  the  markets 


[- 


.*..*<.;.  .-•-.' 


VHB   TBMTt  or   ■B1M« 


>« 


18 


idvisecl  me  to  go  to  Eabylie  on  an  artistio  eTp!orIng  oxpficli- 
&ion.  From  our  point  of  view,  you  see,  it's  unbroken  ground, 
they  «ay,  or  almost  unbroken ;  and  everytliing  civilised  has 
Seen  »o  painted  up,  an^  painted  down,  and  painted  round 
.kbout,  of  late  years,  by  every  one  everywhere,  that  one's  glad 
to  get  a  hint  of  the  chance  of  finding  some  unhackneyed  sub- 
ject in  a  corner  of  Africa.  Besides,  they  tell  me  it  is  all 
extremely  naive,  and  I  like  nnivrte.  That's  my  lino  in  art. 
I'm  in  quest  of  the  unsophisticated.     I  paint  simplicity." 

••  You'll  find  your  sitter  in  Kabylie  then  :  naivete  rampant 
and  simplicity  with  a  vengeance,"  the  explorer  answered. 
"  It's  quit#  untouched  and  unvulgarized  as  yet  by  any  taint 
or  tinge  t^i  Parisian  civilization.  The  aboriginal  Kabylea 
haven't  even  learnt  the  A  B  C  of  French  culture — to  sit  at  an 
estaminet  and  play  dominoes." 

••  So  much  the  better.  That's  just  wlwit  1  want.  Unvar- 
nished man.  The  antique  vase  in  real  life.  And  I'm  toid 
the  costumes  are  almost  Greek  in  their  naturalness." 

"  Quite  Greek,  or  even  more  so,"  the  explorer  replied  ; 
"  thoHgh  perhaps,  considering  its  extreme  simplicity,  we 
ought  rather  to  say,  even  less  so.  But  where  do  you  mean 
to  stop,  and  how  to  travel  ?  Accommodation  in  ancient 
Greece,  you  know,  wasn't  exactly  luxurious." 

♦♦  Oh,  I'll  just  set  out  from  Algiers  by  diligence,  I  supposo, 
and  put  np  for  awhile  at  some  Uttle  hotel  in  the  country 
villages." 

The  explorer's  face  could  not  resist  a  gentle  smile  of  sup- 
pressed merriment.  "  An  hotel,  my  dear  sir  l"  he  said,  with 
surprise.  ••  An  hotel  in  Kabylie  I  You'll  find  ft  difficult,  I'm 
afraid,  to  meet  with  the  article.  Except  at  Fort  National, 
which  is  a  purely  French  settlement,  where  you  could  study 
only  the  common  or  French  Zouave  engaged  in  his  famihar 
avocations  of  playing  bowls  and  sipping  absintlie,  there's  not 
such  a  thing  as  a  cabaret,  a  lodging,  a  way-side  inn,  in  tlie 
whole  block  of  mountain  country.  Strangers  who  want  to 
explore  Kabylie  may  go  if  they  like  to  the  house  of  the  village 
headman,  the  amine  as  they  called  him,  where  you  may  sup 
off  a  nasty  mess  of  pounded  kous-koua,  and  sleep  at  night  on  a 
sort  of  shelf  or  ledge  among  the  goats  and  the  cattle.  Govern- 
ment compels  every  amin^  to  provide  one  night's  board  and 
entertainment  for  any  European  traveller  who  cares  to  demand 
it.  But  the  entertainment  provided  is  usually  so  very  varied 
and  so  very  lively  that  those  who  have  tried  it  qqco  report  oo 


14 


VU  TSNTl  Of   IHUI. 


it  nnfayorably.  Verbum  8ap,  It's  too  tentomologioal.  When 
you  go  to  Kabylie,  don't  do  a8  the  Kabyles  do." 

"  But  how  do  you  mean  to  manage  yourself?"  the  artist 
adked,  with  the  prudence  of  youth.  Ue  was  nettled  at  having 
made  so  stapid  a  mistake  at  the  very  outset  about  the  re- 
sources of  the  mountains,  and  not  quite  certain  that  he 
grasped  the  meaning  of  verbmn  sap.  (his  Latin  being  strictly  a 
negative  quantity),  so  he  took  refuge  in  the  safe  devise  of  a 
question  that  turned  the  tuules.  "  I  came  to  Algiers  hoping 
to  pick  up  some  information  as  to  ways  and  means  as  soon  as 
I  got  here ;  and  since  you  seem  to  know  the  ropes  so  well, 
perhaps  you'll  give  a  raw  hand  the  benefit  of  your  riper 
experience." 

"Oh,  /  have  my  tent,"  the  traveller  answered,  with  the 
quiet  air  of  a  man  who  has  made  bis  way  alone  about  the 
world.  **  It's  a  first-rate  tent  for  camping  out  in ;  it's  sup- 
plied with  the  electric  light,  a  hydrauUo  lift,  hot  water  laid 
on,  and  all  the  latest  modern  improvements — metaphorically 
speaking,"  he  hastened  to  add  by  an  afterthought,  for  he  saw 
his  companion's  large  grey  eyes  opening  wider  and  wider  with 
astonishment  each  moment.  "It's  awfully  comfortable,  you 
know,  as  deserts  go  ;  and  I  could  easily  rig  up  a  spare  bed ;  so 
if  you  really  mean  to  paint  in  Kabylie,  and  will  bear  a  share 
in  the  expenses  of  carriage,  it  might  suit  both  our  books,  per- 
haps, if  you  were  to  engage  my  furnished  apartments.  For 
I'm  not  over-burdened  with  spare  cash  myself — no  naturalist 
ever  is — and  I'm  by  no  means  above  taking  in  a  lodger,  if  any 
eligible  person  presents  himself  at  the  tent  with  good  refer- 
ences and  an  unblemished  character.  Money  not  so  much  an 
object  as  congenial  society  in  a  respectable  family." 

It  was  a  kind  offer,  playfully  veiled  under  the  cloak  of 
mutual  accommodation,  and  the  painter  took  it  at  once  as  it 
was  meant.  "  How  very  good  of  you,"  he  said.  ••  I'm  im- 
mensely obliged.  Nothing  on  earth  would  suit  my  plans 
better,  if  it  wouldn't  be  trespassing  wO  much  on  your  kind 
hospitality." 

"  Not  at  all,"  the  explorer  answered,  with  a  good-hum- 
oured nod.  •'  Don't  mention  that.  To  say  the  truth,  I  shall 
be  glad  of  a  companion.  The  Arab  pails  after  a  month  or 
two  of  his  polite  society.  And  I  love  Art,  too,  though  I  don't 
pretend  myself  to  understand  it.  We'll  talk  the  matter  over 
a  Uttle,  as  to  business  arrangements,  over  a  cup  of  coffee,  and 
I  dare  say,  when  we've  compared  notes,  we  shall  manage  to 
bit  things  off  comfortably  together." 


NF^jpir 


m*7^fr 


TBI   TBMTf   Of    MIM. 


II 


"  Maj  we  exchange  cards  7"  the  artist  aiked.  palling  oat  % 
lilver-bound  case  from  his  broast- pocket,  and  banding  ont  of 
its  httle  regulation  pasteboards  to  his  new  friend. 

The  explorer  glanced  at  it,  and  read  the  oamo,  "  Vemoa 
Dlake,  Grcsholm  Road,  Guildford." 

"  I've  no  card  of  my  own,"  he  made  answar,  as  he  pocketed 
it ;  "in  the  desert,  you  see,  cards  were  of  very  little  use  ; 
Bedouins  don't  drop  them  on  one  another.  But  my  name's 
Le  Marchant — Eustace  Le  Marchant,  of  Jersey,  beetle- 
sticker." 

•*  Oh,  but  I  know  your  name,**  Blake  cried  eagerly,  de- 
lighted to  show  himself  not  wholly  ignorant  of  a  distinguished 
naturalist.  "  You're  an  F.  B.  S.,  aren't  yon  ?  Ah,  yes,  I 
thought  so.  I've  seen  notices  of  you  often  in  the  paper,  I'm 
sure,  as  having  gone  somewhere  and  found  out  something. 
Do  you  know,  if  I'd  only  known  that  before,  I  think  I  should 
have  been  afraid  to  accept  your  kind  offer.  I'm  9JDl  awfully 
/  ignorant  sort  of  fellow  mys'slf — far  too  V  ''^nt  to  go  camp- 
ing out  with  an  F.  B.  S.  in  ilio  wilds  of  Afi  .ca." 

"  If  being  an  F.  B.  S.  is  the  worst  orin  o  you  can  bring  to 
<  my  charge,"  Le  Marchant  answerec'  ith  ^  smile,  "  I  dare 
say  we  shall  pull  together  all  very  wea.  And  ^f  vou  meet  no 
//  Ww;ar'  society  than  F.  R.  S.'s  in  the  wild*  of  Amoa,  though 

it's  me  that  sj.ys  it  as  oughtn't  to  Bay  il,  yuur  luck  will  have 
been  very  exceptional  indeed.  But  I  don't  think  yoa  need  be 
much  afraid  of  me.  I'm  an  F.  B.  S.  of  tlie  mildest  type.  I 
never  call  anything  by  its  longest  and  ugliest  Latin  name ;  I 
never  bore  other  people  with  interesting  detuils  of  anatomical 
structure  ;  I  never  cut  up  anything  ahve  (bar  oystersV,  and  I 
never  lecture,  publicly  or  privately,  to  anybody,  anywliere,  on 
any  consideration.  There  are  two  kinds  of  naturalists,  you 
know  ;  and  I'm  one  of  the  wrong  kind.  The  superior  clast 
live  in  London  or  Paris,  examine  everything  minutely  with  a 
Xgreat  big  microscope,  tack  on  inches  of  Greek  nomenclature 
to  an  insignificant  mite  or  bit  of  moss,  and  split  hairs  against 
anybody  with  marvellous  dexterity.  That's  science.  It  dwells 
in  a  museum.  For  my  part  I  detest  it.  The  inferior  class 
live  in  Europe,  Asia,  Africa,  or  America,  as  fate  or  fancy 
carries ;  and,  instead  of  looking  at  everything  in  a  dried 
specimen,  go  out  into  the  wild  woods  with  rifle  on  shoulder, 
or  box  in  hand,  and  observe  the  birds,  and  beasts,  and  green 
things  of  the  earth,  as  God  made  them,  in  their  own  natural 
and  lovely  surroundmgs.  That's  natural  history,  old-fashioned, 


-if  ■  .  w    ^'^'^*r^  "^    '■ 


te 


tm  TX9T8  Of  tBBII. 


fitnple,  coTTiTnon-place,  natural  history  ;  anfl  I,  for  my  partt 
ftm  an  old-fashioned  naturalist.  I've  been  all  winter  v7atoh« 
ing  the  sanJy-^ay  creatures  on  the  eandy-grey  desert,  pre- 
paring for  my  i^reafc  work  on  *  Btmcture  and  Function,'  And 
now,  through  tiis  summer,  I  want  to  correct  and  correlate  my 
results  by  observin.^  the  plr^ts,  and  animals,  and  insects  of 
the  tnoiintains  In  Kabylio.  To  tfeU  you  the  truth,  I  think  I 
rfiall  like  you — for  I,  too,  have  a  ta«l3  I'or  simplicity.  If  you 
come  with  ma,  I  can  promise  you  sport  and  healthy  fare,  and 
make  you  comfortable  in  my  fcniishsd  apartments.  Let'i 
descend  to  details — for  this  is  busiogja — and  we  must  under- 
stand exactly  what  cac!i  of  U9  want*  before  either  of  us  binds 
himself  dorm  formally  for  fi?e  irioiiV.ia  to  the  other.  Alph- 
onse,  a  couple  of  colfeea  and  tv/o  petits  verrea  at  once,  here, 
will  you  ?"  .  . 

And  by  the  clarifying  lid  of  a  ci^^.r  and  a  ehassg-cafe,  it  was 
finally  decided,  before  iba  evening  biui  flushed  the  Djurjura 
purpie,  and  turned  the  wiiitu  Ar:»\)  w^iils  to  pink,  that  Vernon 
Blake  ehould  acco:xi}^j.ny  Ijlustuco  La  Marchant,  on  almoafc 
Domirinl  terms  as  to  ihs  fhi^ring  of  expenses,  on  his  fiuibimtr 
Ui]^  (0  ih&  juuanlaioa  of  Urande  Kabju«. 


•:|fk«'?;f»lP555?^!gW' 


tun   'HiiSi'Sli   »Jf   tUUUL, 


n 


CHAPTER  a 


HONOURS. 


Somewhere  about  the  same  time,  away  over  in  England* 
Iris  Knyvett  sat  one  morning  at  lunch,  drummmg  with  her 
fingers  on  the  table  before  her  that  particular  tatttoo  which 
the  wisdom  of  our  ancestors  ascribed  to  the  author  of  all  evil. 

Iris  Knyvett,  herself,  would,  no  doubt,  have  been  very 
much  astonished  if  only  she  could  have  been  told,  by  some 
prescient  visitor,  that  her  own  fate  was  in  any  way  bound  up 
with  the  proposed  expedition  of  two  unknown  young  men, 
from  the  English  Club  at  Algiers,  into  the  wilda  of  Kabylie. 
She  had  hardly  heard  (save  in  the  catalogue  of  the  Institute) 
the  name  of  Vernon  I31ake ;  while  Eustace  Le  Marchant's 
masterly  papers,  before  the  Linnean  Society,  on  the  Longi- 
corn  Beetles  of  the  Spice  Islands,  had  never  roused  her  girlish 
enthusiasm,  or  quickened  her  soul  to  a  fiery  thirst  for  the 
study  of  entomology.  And  yet,  if  she  had  but  known  it,  Irii 
Knyvett's  whole  future  in  life  depended  utterly,  as  so  often 
happens  with  every  one  of  us,  on  the  casual  encounter  of 
those  two  perfect  strangers  among  the  green '  recesses  of  the 
North  African  mountains. 

In  absolute  ignorance  of  which  profound  truth,  Iris  Kny- 
vett herself  went  on  drumming  with  her  fingers  impatiently 
on  the  table,  and  leaving  the  filleted  sole  on  her  plate  to  grow 
cold,  unheeded,  in  the  cool  shade  of  a  fair  lady's  neglect. 

'*  Iris,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Knyvett  said,  sharply,  with  a  dry 
cDugh,  "  why  don't  you  eat  your  lunch  ?  Your  appetite's 
frightful.  What  makes  you  go  on  hammering  away  at  that 
dreadful  tattoo  so  ?" 

Iris's  eyes  came  back  with  a  bound  from  a  point  in  space 
lying  apparently  several  thousand  miles  behind  the  eminently 
conventional  Venetian  scene  that  hangs  above  the  sideboard 
in  eVery  gentleman's  dining-room.  *'  I  can't  eat  anything,  I 
really  think,  mamma,"  she  said,  with  a  slight  sigh,  *•  till  I've 
had  ^lihat  telegram." 

Mrs.  Knyvett  helped  herself  to  a  second  piece  of  filleted 
sole  and  its  due  proportion  of  anchovy  sauce  with  great  d«lib- 


k^i 


]J 


TUB   tSMIS   OF   8U£M. 


eration,  before  she  answered  slowly,  "  Oh,  so  you're  expecting 
a  telegram  I" 

**  Yes,  mamma,"  Iris  replied,  with  scarcely  a  shade  of  rea- 
sonable vexation  on  her  pretty  face.  "  Don't  you  remember, 
dear,  I  told  you  my  tutor  promised  to  telegraph  to  me." 

"  Your  tutor  I  oh,  did  he  ?"  Mrs.  Knyvett  went  on,  with 
polite  acquiescence,  letting  drop  her  pince-nez  with  a  dexter- 
ous elevation  of  her  arched  eyebrows.  The  principal  feature 
of  Mrs.  Knyett's  character,  indeed,  was  a  Roman  nose  of 
finely  developed  proportions ;  but  it  was  one  of  those  insipid 
Boman  noses  which  stand  for  birth  alone — which  impart 
neither  dignity,  firmness,  nor  strength  to  a  face,  but  serve 
only  to  attest  their  owner's  aristocratic  antecedents.  Mrs. 
Knyvett's  was  useful  mainly  to  support  her  pince-nez,  but  as 
her  father  had  been  the  Dean  of  a  Southern  cathedral,  it  also 
managed  incidentally  to  support  the  credit  of  her  family. 
"  Oh,  did  he,"  Mrs.  Knyvett,  repeated  after  a  pause,  during 
which  Iris  continued  to  tattoo  uninterruptedly.  ••  That  was 
very  kind  of  him."  Though  why  on  earth,  or  concerning 
what,  he  should  wish  to  telegraph,  Mrs.  Knyvett,  who  had 
never  been  told  more  than  five  hundred  times  before,  had 
really  not  the  slightest  conception. 

'•  Not  he^  mamma.  You  must  surely  remember  I've  re- 
minded you  over  and  over  again  that  my  tutor's  name  is 
Emily  Vanrenen." 

"  Then  why  does  she  sign  herself  •  B.  Vanrenon,  B.A.  and 
D.Sc.,*  I  wonder  ?"  Mrs.  Knyvett  went  on,  with  dreamy  un- 
certainty. "  A  Doctor  of  Science  ought  surely  to  be  a  man  ? 
And  Bachelor  of  Arts,  too — Bachelor  of  Arts.  Bachelors  and 
spinsters  are  getting  too  mixed,  too  mixed  altogether." 

Iris  was  just  going  to  answer  something,  gently  as  was  her 
wont,  in  defence  of  the  mixture,  when  a  rap  at  the  door  made 
her  jump  up  hastily.  "  That  must  be  the  telegram  I"  she 
;ried,  with  a  tremor,  and  darted  off  to  the  door  in  a  vigorous 
lash  that  sufficiently  showed  her  Girton  training  had  at  least 
not  quite  succeeded  in  crushing  the  life  out  of  her. 

"  Iris,  Iris  I"  her  mother  called  after  her  in  horror  ;  ••  let 
lane  answer  the  door,  my  dear.  This  unseemly  procedure — 
and  at  lunch  time,  too — is  really  quite  unpardonable.  In  my 
time  girls " 

But  Iris  was  well  out  of  hearing  long  since,  and  Mrs. 
Kn3rvett  was  forced  to  do  penance  vicariously  herself  on  her 
daughter's  account  to  the  oireuded  fetish  of  the  British  draw- 
ing-room. 


fBK    IKMTg  or   0HX1I. 


18 


In  another  minnte  the  bright  young  girl  had  eome  bacit, 
crest-fallen,   ushering  iu  before  her  a  stout  and  rosy-faced 
middle-aged  gentleman,  also  distinguished  by  a  Roman  nosp 
to  match,  and  dressed   wdtli   the  scrupulous  and  respeotabh 
neatness  of  the  London  barrister. 
"  It's  only  Uncle  Tom,"  she  cried,  disappointed. 
"Only  Uncle  Tom  ?"  the  stout,  red-faced  gentleman  echoed 
<,fOod-humouredly.     ••  Well,  for  taking  the  conceit  out  of  a 
man,  I'll  back  the  members  of  one's  own  family,  and  morf 
especially  and  particularly  one's  prettiest  and  most  favourite 
niece,  against  all  comers,  for  a  hundred  pounds  a  side,  even 
money.     That's  all  the  thanks  I  get,  is  it,   Iris,  for  cominj> 
out  of  Court  in  the  midst  of  a  most  important  case,  an'l 
leaving  my  junior,  as  thick-headed  a  Scotchman  as  ever  wai" 
lom,  to  cross-examine  the  leading  witnesses  for  the  othei 
ide — on  purpose  to  ask  you  whether  you've  got  a  telegram 
uid  •  Only  Uncle  Tom '  are  the  very  first  words  my  pret 
iest  niece  thinks  fit  to  greet  me  with  after  all  my  devotion.' 
And  he  stooped  down  as  Iris  seated  herself  at  the  tabl< 
lice  more,  and  kissed  her  affectionately  on  her  smooth  whit 
irehead. 

'•Oh,  Uncle,"  Iris  cried,  blushing  up  to  her  pretty  bin. 
yes  with  ingenuous  distress  at  having  even  for  a  momeni 
ppeared  to  slight  him.  '•  I  didn't  mean  that.  You  know  1 
idn't  mean  it.  I'm  always  pleased  and  delighted  to  see  you 
)ut  the  fact  is  I  was  expecting  the  telegram  ;  and  I  ran  to  th. 
oor  when  you  rattat-tatted,  thinking  it  was  the  telegrapl 
oy;  and  when  I  saw  it  was  only  you — 1  mean,  wlien  I  sav 
t  was  you,  of  course — why  I  was  naturally  disappointed  rid 
o  have  got  the  news  about  it  all.  But  did  you  really  com 
ip  all  the  way  from  Court  on  purpose  to  hear  it,  you  dear  oh 
mole?" 

'♦All  the  way  from  Court,  with  Coleridge,  C.J.,  smilin.i 
cynically  at  my  best  witnesses,  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour 
I'is,"  the  red-faced  old  gentleman  answered,  mollifiod,  "  fo 
lothing  on  earth  except  to  hear  about  a  certain  pretty  litt! 
lieoe  of  mine — because  I  knew  the  pretty  little  niece  wasi  < 
ery  anxious  on  the  subject." 

"Oh,  Uncle,  that  wm  kind  of  you."  Iris  cried  aloud,  (Jusb 
iig  up  to  her  eyes  once  more,   this   time  with   pleasure.     A 
ttle  sympathy  went  a  Icmi  way  witii  her.     "  li'si  ao  good  of 
ou  to  take  so  much  interest  in  me." 

My  unfortunate  client  won't  say  so,"  Undo  Tom  mutterp'^ 


<i 


"T-irrffrw 


M 


TH<  TSNT8  OF  SBXll. 


& 


ft- 


.,  ¥ 


half  alond  to  himself.  And,  indeed,  the  misf^rnided  perionf 
who  had  retained  and  refreshed  Thomas  Kyimorsley  Whit- 
marsh,  Q.C.,  the  eminent  authority  on  probate  cases,  would 
probably  not  have  learned  with  unmixed  pleasure  this  touoh- 
mg  instance  of  his  domestic  aifection. 

••  But  what's  it  all  about,  dear  Tom  ?'*  Mrs.  Knyvett  ex- 
claimed, in  a  querulous  tone  and  with  a  puzzled  air.  '*  What 
do  Iris  and  you  want  to  get  a  telegram  from  this  ambiguoui 
tutor  of  hers  for?" 

Uncle  Tom  was  just  about  to  enlighten  Ins  sister's  darkness 
(for  the  five  hundred  and  first  time),  when  poor  Iris,  unable 
to  control  her  feelings  any  longer,  rose  from  the  table,  with 
tears  standing  in  her  pretty  blue  eyes,  and  remarked,  in  a 
flhghtly  husky  voice,  that  she  could  eat  nothing, .  and  would 
go  and  wait  for  the  telegram  in  the  drawing-room. 

Mrs.  Enyveit  looked  after  her,  bewildered  and  amazed. 
"  This  sort  of  thing  makes  girls  very  strange,"  she  said, 
eapiently. 

"  This  sort  of  thing  "  being  that  idol  of  her  age,  the  Higher 
Education. 

"  Well,  well,  it's  done  her  no  harm,  anyhow,"  Uncle  Tom 
answered,  with  stout  good  humour,  for  his  niece  was  a  great 
favourite  of  his,  in  spite  of  her  heresies.  "  I  don't  approve 
of  all  this  fal-lal  and  nonsense  myself,  either ;  but  Iris  is  a 
Knyvett,  you  see,  and  the  Knyvetts  always  struck  out  a 
Une  for  themselves  ;  and  each  Knyvett  strikes  out  a  different 
one.  She's  struck  out  hers.  She  didn't  get  that  from  tti, 
you  may  be  sure.  Nobody  could  ever  accuse  the  Whitmarshei 
of  eccuutricity  or  originality.  We  get  on,  but  we  get  on 
steadily.  It's  dogged  that  does  it  with  our  family,  Auie'ia. 
The  Knyvetts  are  different.  They  go  their  own  way,  and  it's 
no  good  anybody  else  trying  to  stop  them." 

"  What  would  her  poor  dear  father  say  to  it  all,  I  won- 
der?" Mrs.  Knyvett  remarked  parenthetically,  through  a  mist 
of  siglis. 

"He  Would  say,  'Let  her  go  her  own  way,* "  the  eminent 
Q.C.  rephed  with  cheerful  haste  ;  V  and  if  it  comes  to  that, 
wliotlrer  he  said  it  or  not  wouldn't  much  matter,  for  in  her 
own  quiet,  peaceful,  unobtrusive  manner,  offending  nobody, 
Iris  would  go  her  own  way,  in  spite  of , him.  Yes,  Amelia,  I 
lay,  in  spite  of  him.  After  all,  it's  not  been  at  all  a  bad 
thin,*^,  in  some  respects,  tlujt  our  dear  girl  should  have  taken 
Vkjf  With  this  higher  educaiion  fad.     We  don't  approve  of  il; 


it's 


nm  TBMTf  or  ram.  H 

tnt,  if  H*8  flone  nothing  else,  it's  kept  ber  at  least  out  of  the 

way  of  the  fortune  hunters." 

••  Iris  has  great  expectations,"  Mrs.  Knrvett  remarked  com- 
placently. She  remarked  it,  not  because  her  brother  was  not 
already  well  aware  of  the  fact,  but  bi'^ait  ^a  the  thought  was 
in  her  own  mind,  and  she  uttered  it,  as  slie  uttered  all  other 
platitudes  that  happened  to  occur  to  her,  in  tho  full  ezpec- 
tation  that  her  hearer  would  find  them  m  interesting  as  she 
d\ 

"  Iris  has  great  expectations,"  her  brother  echoed.  **  No 
doubt  in  the  world,  I  think,  about  that.  By  the  f.rms  of  the 
old  Admiral's  will,  ridiculous  as  they  are,  I  hardly  imagine 
Sir  Arthur  would  venture  to  leave  tha  property. otherwise. 
To  do  so  would  be  risky,  with  me  agaiust  him.  And  if  Irif 
had  gone  into  London  Society,  and  been  thro^m  into  the 
whirl  of  London  life,  mat' ad  of  reading  her 'Odyssey*  and 
her . 'Lucretius,'  and  mugj  ng  up  aniu*ing  works  on  oonie 
sections,  it's  my  belief  soma  peuiiMess  beggar — an  Lrish  ad- 
venturer, perhaps,  if  such  a  creature  survives  nowadays — 
would  have  fallen  upon  her  and  snapped  her  up  long  ago ; 
especially  before  she  came  into  her  fortune.  Then  it  seems 
to  be  almost  disinterested.  Now,  this  Cambridge  scheme  has 
saved  us  from  all  the  trouble  and  bother  of  that  sort  of 
thing — it's  ferried  us  across  the  most  dangerous  time — it's 
helped  us  to  bridge  over  the  thin  ice ;  till  Iris  is  a  woman, 
and  quite  fit  to  take  care  of  herself." 

"  There's  something  in  that,"  Mrs.  Knyvett  responded,  with 
a'  stately  nod  of  the  prominent  feature.  It  seemed  somehow 
to  revolve  independently  on  its  own  axis. 

**  Something  in  that  1"  ber  brother  cried,  amazed,  as  though 
his  own  "  devil "  had  ventured  to  agree  with  him.  •*  There's 
a  great  deal  in  that,  Amelia  I  There's  everything  in  that  I 
There's  worlds  in  that  I  It's  the  *  Iliad '  in  a  nutshell.  The 
girl's  done  the  very  best  thing  on  earth  for  herself.  She's 
saved  her  expectations — her  great  expectations — from  the 
^eedy  mawof  every  eaves-dropping  London  fortune-hunter." 

At  that  moment  another  rat-tat  at  the  door  made  Uncle 
Tom  start  in  his  chair,  and  Iris's  voice  was  heard  upon  the 
stairs  as  she  brushed  down  from  the  drawing-room  to  the 
front  door  ?v  'sudden  trepidation.  Endless  terrors  crowded 
upon  her  mind  as  she  went.  She  was  quite  safe  about  her 
Latin  prose,  to  be  sure,  but  oh  I  that  unspeakable,  that  terri- 
ble mistake  in  the  unseen  passage  from  Plato's  "  Eepublio  1" 


W 


p^fT 


■  jiiimii  m|uii",f.iiiji.<i'^n^vi^ 


:.iW!yiif|jpi^i"HiM|ii 


ii2 


TBB    TSMTl   Of   MUUI. 


ft  - 


I: 


l(  would  spoil  all,  that  false  socond  aorist  1  It  wan  the  tele 
gram  this  time,  sure  enough,  without  farther  delay.  Iris  tore 
it  open  in  an  agony  of  suspense.  Had  the  second  aorist  be- 
trayed her  girlish  trust  ?  Had  Plato  repelled  her  platonic 
affections  ?  Then  her  heart  stopped  beating  for  a  moment 
as  she  read  the  words,  "  Cambridge  University,  Classical 
Tripos :  Women,  First  Class,  Iris  Knyvett,  Girton,  bracketed 
equal,  Third  Classic.  Sincer«st  congratulations.  We  are  all 
so  proud.     Affectionately  yours,  K.  Vanrenen." 

Oh,  cruel  century  that  has  put  such  a  strain  upon  a  grow 
ing  woman  I  Unfcle  Tom  seized  the  half-fainting  girl  tenderl} 
in  his  arms,  and,  wringing  her  band  a  dozen  times  over,  in 
spite  of  his  disapproval  of  the  higher  education  for  women 
(which  his  present  chronicler  blushes  to  share),  kissed  her 
and  congratulated  her  turn  about  in  one  unceasing  tide  for 
the  next  five  minutes  ;  while  poor  Iris's  head,  giddy  with  her 
triumph,  swam  round  and  round  in  a  wild  delirium  of  delight 
and  amazement.  Third  Ch.^sic!  In  her  highest  mood  ol 
hope  she  had  never  expected  anytliing  like  this.  She  cried 
to  herself  silently  in  her  joy  and  satisfaction. 

••  But  what  does  it  all  mean  ?"  Mrs.  Knyvett  exclaimed, 
adjusting  the  pince-nez  on  its  pre-ordained  stand  once  more 
with  practised  skill,  and  gazing  vacantly  from  the  telegram 
to  Iris,  and  from  Iris  to  the  telegram.  "  Is  it — verynnuch 
worse — much  lower  than  she  expected  ?" 

"  What  does  it  all  mean,  ma'am  ?"  Uncle  Tom  exclaimed, 
Hinging  prudtnce  to  the  dogs,  and  his  cherished  convictions; 
to  the  four  winds  of  heaven.  •*  What  does  it  all  mean  ?  1 
like  your  question,  indeed!  Why  it  means  just  this — God 
bless  my  soul,  how  the  girl  trembles  I — that  your  own  daugh- 
ter. Iris  Knyvett,  has  bcnton  all  the  men  hut  two,  in  Cam 
bridge  University,  into  a  cocked  hat.  That's  what  it  means, 
ma'am.  That's  what  it  means  !  1  don't  approve  of  it ;  but. 
upon  my  soul,  I'm  proud  of  her.  Your  daughter  Iris  ii 
third  Glassio. 


\  \ 


ipiii 


WM:^f" 


It  was  the  tele 

delay.    Iris  tore 

jcond  aorist  be 

id  her  platonic 

for  a  moment 

^rsity,  Classical 

irton,  bracketed 

ns.    We  are  all 
II 
■ 

in  upon  a  grow 

ng  girl  tenderl} 

n  times  over,  in 

tion  for  women 

ire),  kissed   her 

leasing  tide  for 

giddy  with  her 

irinm  of  delight 

igliest  mood  ol 

•his.     She  cried 

vett  exclaimed, 

and  once  mort 

n  the  telegram 

it — very^nuch 

lorn  exclaimed, 

led  conviction? 

t  all  mean  ?     1 

MHt  this — God 

>ur  own  daugh- 

t  two,  in  Cam 

what  it  means, 

rove  of  it ;  but, 

nughter   Iria  ii 


flU   IHMW   W/   UHMM, 


an 


CHAPTER  III. 


BT    MOUUIMU    MOUNTAINS. 


I  I 


A  WEEK  later,  preparations  were  complete.  The  tent  had 
been  arranged  for  mountain  travelling ;  a  folding«b«d  had 
been  set  up  for  the  lodger's  accommodation  ;  stores  bad  been 
laid  in  from  that  universal  provider  of  Algerian  necessities, 
Alexander  Dunlop,  in  the  line  d'lsly ;  a  Mahonnais  Spaniard 
from  the  Balearic  Isles  iiad  been  secured  as  servant  to  guard 
tlie  camp ;  and  Blake  and  Le  Marchant,  on  varying  ends 
intent,  had  fairly  started  off  for  their  tour  of  inspection 
through  the  peaks  and  passes  of  the  Kabylian  Highlands. 
The  artist's  kit  included  a  large  and  select  assortment  of 
easels,  brushes,  pigments,  canvas,  pencils  and  Whatman's 
paper ;  the  naturalist's  embraced  a  good  modem  fowling- 
piece,  an  endless  array  of  boxes  for  skins  and  specimens,  and 
a  fine  collection  of  butterlly-nets,  chloroform  bottles,  entomo- 
logical pins,  and  materials  for  preserving  birds,  animals,  and 
botanical  treasures.  Le  Marchant,  as  the  older  and  more 
experienced  traveller,  had  charged  himself  with  all  the  neces- 
sary arrangements  as  to  i)ii,cking  and  provisions ;  and  when 
Blake  looked  on  at  the  masterly  way  in  which  his  new  friend 
managed  to  make  a  couple  of  packing-cases  and  a  cork  mat- 
tress do  duty  for  a  bedstead,  at  the  same  time  that  they  con- 
tained, in  their  deep  recesses,  the  needful  creature  comforts 
for  a  three  months'  tour  among  untrodden  ways,  he  could  not 
sufficiently  congratulate  himself  upon  the  lucky  chance  which 
had  thrown  him  on  the  balcony  of  the  Club  at  Algiers  that 
particular  afternoon,  in  company  with  so  competent  and  so 
skilful  an  explorer.  He  had  fallen  on  his  feet,  indeed,  without 
knowing  it. 

A  lovely  morning  of  bright  African  sunshine  saw  the  two 
set  forth  in  excellent  spirits  from  the  hotel  at  Tizi-Ouzou,  the 
furthest  French  village  in  the  direction  of  Kabyhe,  whither 
they  had  come  the  previous  day  by  diligence  from  Algiers,  to 
attack  the  mountains  of  the  still  bftrbario  and  half-uncou 
qaered  Kabylei. 


#: 


t>^y'^T.^!f;f,^r^'',)gjpiH//^r»lf^yf-- 


u 


TBB   ntHTS   OV   IHSM. 


F.  ■ 


*'  Are  the  mnlei  ready  ?"  Le  Marohant  asked  of  the  waiter 
at  the  little  country  inn  where  they  had  passed  the  nighty  as 
he  iwallowed  down  the  last  drpp  of  his  morning  coffee. 

"MoDBieur,"  the  waiter  answered,  wiping  his  mouth  with 
his  greasy  apron  as  he  spoke,  '*  the  Arabs  say  the  mules  will 
be  at  the  door  in  half  an  hour." 

"  The  Arabs  say  I "  Le  Marchant  repeated,  with  an  impa- 
tient movement  of  his  bronzed  hand.  "  In  half  an  hour, 
indeed  I  The  sloth  of  the  Arab  1  . 1  know  these  fellows. 
That  means  ten  o'clock,  at  the  very  earliest.  It't^  now  seven, 
and  unless  we  get  under  way  within  twenty  minutes,  the 
Bun  *11  be  so  hot  before  we  reach  a  resting-place,  that  we  shall 
deliquesce  like  Miss  Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia  Skeggs  in  '  The 
Vicar  of  Wakefield.'  I'll  go  out  and  hurry  them  up,  Blake,  with 
a  little  gentle  moral  suasion." 

Blake  followed  his  host  curiously  to  the  door,  where  half-a- 
dozen  ragged  Orientals,  picturesquely  clad  in  a  costume  about 
equally  divided  between  burnouse  and  dirt,  were  sprawling  at 
their  ease  on  a  heap  of  soft  dust  in  the  full  front  of  the  morning 
sunshine. 

♦•  Get,  up,  my  friends,"  Le  Marchant  cried  aloud  in  excellent 
Arabic,  for  he  was  a  born  linguist.  ••  If  the  mules  are  not  ready 
in  five  minutes  on  the  watch  which  I  hold  in  my  hand,  by  the 
beard  of  <  'le  Prophet,  I  solemnly  tell  you,  you  may  go  every  man 
to  his  own  home  without  a  sou,  and  I  will  hire  other  mules,  with 
the  blessing  of  Allah,  from  better  men  than  you  are  to  take  us 
on  our  journey." 

Blake  did  not  entirely  understand  colloquial  Arabic  when 
rapidly  spoken — in  fact,  his  own  linguistic  studies  stopped  sud- 
denly short  at  his  mother  tongue,  and  so  much  French  in  the 
OUendorffian  dialect  as  enabled  him  to  state  fluently  that  the 
gardener's  son  had  given  his  apple  to  the  daughter  of  the  car- 
penter— but  he  was  greatly  amused  to  see  the  instantaneous 
effect  which  this  single  sonorous  sentence,  rolled  quietly  but 
very  firmly  out  in  distinct  tones,  produced  upon  the  nerves  of 
the  sprawling  Arabs.  They  rose  from  the  dust  heap  as  if  by 
magic.  In  a  moment  all  was  bustle  and  turmoil,  and  confusion. 
The  tent  and  beds  were  hastily  laden  with  infinite  shrieks  on 
the  patient  mules  ;  boxes  were  strapped  on  with  many  strange 
cords  and  loud  cries  of  "  Arri  I  "  to  the  backs  of  donkeys  ;  arms 
and  legs  were  flung  wildly  about  in  multitudinous  gesticulations 
of  despair  and  inability  :  and  before  the  five  minutes  were  fairly 
•▼•r  by  that  inexorable  watch  which  Le  Marchant  held  with  stem 


5 


ppp 


tas    TBNTB   or    BMKll. 


rt folTe  before  him,  the  little  cavalcade  started  off  at  a  trot  in  the 
direction  of  the  still  snow-clad  summits  of  the  nearer  Djurjura. 

It  was  a  quaint  small  caravan,  as  it  mounted  the  hillside. 
The  two  Englishmen  rode  unburdened  mules  ;  tiie  ragged  Arabs, 
barefoot  and  melting,  ran  after  them  with  shouts  of  guttural 
depth,  and  encouraged  the  pack-beasts  with  loud  jerky  remon- 
strances— "  Oh,  father  of  fools,  and  son  of  a  jackass,  will  you 
not  get  up  and  hurry  yourself  more  quickly  *?  " 

"Where  are  we  going?"  Blake  asked  at  last,  as  the  high 
road  that  had  conducted  them  for  a  mile  from  Tizi-Ouzoa 
dwindled  down  abruptly  near  a  steep  slope  to  a  mere  aboriginal 
Kabyle  mule-track,  beset  with  stones,  and  overhung  by  thickets 
of  prickly  cactus. 

•'  How  should  I  know  ? "  the  naturalist  answered,  with  a 
vague  wave  of  the  hand.  '♦  We're  going  to  Kabylio.  That's 
enough  for  the  moment.  When  we  get  there,  we'll  look  about 
for  a  suitable  spot,  and  pitch  our  tent  wherever  there's  a  patch 
of  smooth  enough  ground  for  a  man  to  pitch  on.  •  Sufficient 
unto  the  day  '  is  the  explorer's  motto.  Your  tru.  traveller  never 
decides  anything  beforehand.  He  goes  where  fate  and  fortune 
lefti  him.  What  we  both  want  is  to  explore  the  unknown.  We'll 
make  our  headquarter?  within  its  border,  wherever  we  find  a 
convenient  resting-place." 

"Are  the  Kabyles  black?*  Blake  ventured  to  ask,  wHh  a 
side-long  look  ;  onburdening  his  soul  of  a  secret  doubt  that  had 
long  possessed  it. 

"  Oh,  dear  no,  scarcely  even  brown,"  Le  Marchant  answered. 
••  They're  most  of  them  every  bit  as  white  as  you  and  I  are. 
They're  the  old  aboriginal  Romanised  population  —the  Berbers, 
in  fact — driven  up  into  the  hills  by  the  Arab  invasion  in  the 
seventh  century.  Practically  speaking,  you  know,  Jugurthaand 
Masinissa  and  Juba  were  Kabyles." 

Blake  had  never  heard  of  these  gentlemen's  namea'before;  but 
he  veiled  his  ignorance  with  an  acquiescent  '•  Really  I  " 

They  rode  on,  talking  of  many  things  and  various,  for  two  or 
three  hours,  under  the  brilliant  sunshine.  But  all  the  way  as 
they  rode,  they  were  mounting  steadily,"  by  devious  native  tracks, 
steep  and  picturesque,  just  broad  enough  for  two  mules  to  mount 
abreast,  and  opening  out  at  every  step  magniiicent  views  over  the 
surrounding  country.  To  right  and  left  stood  several  white 
villages  perched  on  spurs  of  the  mountain  tops,  with  their  olive 
groves,  and  tombs,  and  tiny  domed  mosques ;  while  below  lay 
hooded  gorges  of  torrent  streams,  overhung  and  draped  by  rich 
fet^toons  of  great  African  clematis.     Bluke  had  nevur  tri^yelUd  (v 


316725 


26 


m   tBMtf  Of   IBfiM. 


'  N^ 


the  Booth  beiore,  and  his  artist  eye  was  oharmed  at  each  tarn  hj 
such  novel  beauties  of  the  Southern  scenery. 

"This  is  glorious,"  he  cried  at  last,  halting  his  mule  at  a 
sudden  bend  of  the  track.  "  I  shall  do  wonders  here.  I  feel 
the  surroundings  exactly  suit  me.  What  could  be  more  lovely 
than  the  luxuriant  vegetation  ?  I  understand  iiuw  those  lines  of 
Tennyson's  in  the  •  Daisy.'  So  rich.  So  luscious  !  And  look, 
up  there  on  the  mountain  side,  that  beautiful  littlo  raosfjue  with 
its  round  white  dome,  embowered  in  its  thicket  of  orainj^e  trees 
and  fan -palms  !  It's  a  dream  of  delight,  it  almost  makes  a 
man  drop  into  poetry  I  " 

"  Yes,  it's  beautiful,  certainly,  very,  very  beautiful,"  Le  Mar- 
chant  replied,  in  a  soberer  voice,  glancing  up  meditatively.  "  You 
never  get  mountain  masses  shaped  like  these  in  the  cold  North  ; 
those  steep  scarped  precipices  and  jagged  pinnacles  would  be  quite 
impossible  in  countries  ground  Hat  and  worn  into  shape  by  the 
gigantic  mangle  of  the  Great  Ice  Age." 

••  The  great  what  ?  "  Blake  asked,  with  a  faint  tingling  sense 
of  doubt  and  shame.     He  was  afraid  for  his  life  that    La  Mar 
chant  was  going  to  be  horribly  scientific. 

••  The  Great  Ice  Age — the  glacial  epoch,  you  know  .  the  p- nod 
of  universal  glacier  development,  which   planed   and    -ihavHil  all 
the  mountain  heights  in  Northern  Europe  to  a  common    dead 
level." 

••I  never  heard  of  it,"  Blake  answered,  shaking  his  head,  with 
a  blush,  but  thmking  it  best  at  the  same  time  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  his  igiiurance  at  one  fell  swoop.  "  I  ...  I  don't 
think  it  was  mentioned  in  ray  history  of  England,  f'ra  such  a 
duflfer  at  books,  you  know.  To  tell  you  the  truth.  I  understand 
very  Uttle,  except  perspective.  I've  read  nothing  hut  the  En^dish 
poets ;  and  these  I've  got  on  my  finger  ends  ;  hut  I  don't 
remember  anything  in  ^iilton  or  Shelley  about  the  (ircat  Ice 
Age.  My  father,  you  see,  was  a  painter  before  me  .  and  as  I 
began  to  show  a — well,  a  disposition  for  painting  very  early,  he 
took  me  away  from  school  when  I  was  quite  a  httle  chap,  and 
put  me  into  his  own  studio,  and  let  me  pick  up  what  I  eould  by 
the  way  ;  so  I've  never  had  any  <i:oneral  education  at  all  to  speak 
of.  But  I  admire  learning — in  other  fellows.  I  aiwavs  like  Xo 
hear  clever  men  talk  together." 

•'  The  best  of  all  educations  Is  the  one  you  picked  up,'  Le 
Marchant  answered,  kindly.  •'  Those  of  us  who  have  been  to 
schools  and  universities  generally  look  back  upon  our  Wfistod 
time  there  as  the  worst-spent  part  of  all  our   hvea.     You're 

(«r'>>nrvif>fl   'V,»5rri   i^''f|)   rubbish    wllij'li    VOU    ^^tV9  iffnrwqr^*   t-^     lis 


tttk    nCNtM    0»    tRRII. 


i1 


:«i'd  in  favonr  of  tnch  ronlitios  as  tlio«?e  you  mention — penpco 
riv«,  for  examplM,  And  Knj^Mish  litcrrtturo." 

As  he  spolte.  tliey  mriuui  almrply  down  to  a  rushing  brook  by 
I  Kabyle  villa^'e,  whure  two  or  thrne  tall  and  lissome  native  ^'irls 
air  aa  Itahans,  or  even  as  I'jnglishwomen,  in  their  simple,  and 
i)ictnreaque  Oriental  costume,  were  washing  clothes  at  a  tiny 
ford,  and  laughing  and  talking  merrily  with  one  another  as  the) 
hent  over  their  work.  The  scene  irresistibly  attracted  Mlake. 
The  garb  of  the  girls  was,  indeed,  most  Greek  and  graceful  ;  and 
cheir  supple  limbs  and  lithe  natural  attitudes  might,  well  arouse 
,i  painter's  or  a  sculptor's  interest. 

"  By  Jove  I "  he  cried.  '*  Le  Marchant,  I  should  like  to 
sketch  them.  Anything  so  picturesque  I  never  saw  in  all  my 
life  before.  •  Sunburnt  mirth,'  as  Keats  calls  it  in  '  The  Niu'ht 
ingale.'  Just  watch  that  girl  stoopirtg  down  to  pound  a  cloth 
vith  a  big  round  stone  there.  Why  Phidias  never  imagined 
inything  more  graceful,  more  shapely,  more  exquisite!  " 

"  She's  splendid,  certainly,"  the  naturalist  answered,  survey 
ng  the  girl's  pose  with  more  measured  coinnuuulation.  "  A  fine 
igure,  I  admit,  well  propped  and  vigorous.  No  tight  lacuig 
here.  No  deformity  of  fashion.  The  human  form  divine,  in 
;nspoiled  beauty,  as  it  came  straight  i'rum  the  hands  of  its 
'reator." 

•*  Upon  my  word,  Le  Marchant,"  the  painter  went  or 
lUhusiastically,  "  I've  half  a  mind  to  stop  the  caravan  this  very 
loraent,  undo  the  pack,  unroll  the  papers,  and  get  out  my 
lachinery  on  the  spot  to  sketch  her." 

Maturer  years  yielded  less  to   the  passing   impulse   of   the 
iioment. 
"  I  wouldn't  if  I  were  you,"  the  naturalist  answered   more 
)olly.     •*  You'll  see  lots  more  of  the  same  sort,  no  doubt,  all 
hrough  Kabyhe.     The  si»ecies  is  probably  well  diffused.     You 
in  paint  them  by  the  score  when  we  reach  our  resting-place." 
As  Blake  paused,  irresolute,  the  girls  looked  up  and  laughed 
)od-humouredly  at  the  evident   admiration  of  the  two  well 
ressed  and  well-equipped  young  infidels.     They  were  not  veiled 
ke  Arab  women  ;  the  faces  and  arms  and  backs  were  bare,  and 
!eir    feet  and  ankles  naked  to  the  knee ;  for  the  old   P»erber 
)pulation  of  North  Africa,  to  whose  race  the  Kabylesol"  Algeria 
•  ilong,   retain    unchanged    to    this    day    their   antique    Uoinaii 
•eedom  of  manners  and  intorcnurse.     The  girls'  features  wcrt 
11  of  thtm  pretty,  with  a  certain  frank  and  barbaric  boi»lni'^>«  o' 
outline.     Though  shy  of  strangers,  they  were  clearly  huimm.i 
the  one  who  had  HUmcUM]   thfir  ■special  fltfr>nt.ion   1m,-\I  ..•    ,  ..,  .^i 


YES   TKNtS   OV   IHSM. 


Lj^ 


L  ?'■"." 


f:  4 


eoqaAttlsMy  acrosn  at  Le  Marchant,  as  he  turner!  hif  beast  w{Q 
sterner  resolve  up  the  slope  of  the  mountain. 

♦•  They're  splendid  creatures,"  the  naturalist  said,  looking 
back  a  little  regretfully,  while  they  rode  up  the  opposite  side 
and  left  the  brook  and  the  girls  for  ever  behind  thorn.  "  Tha^ 
sort  of  face  certainly  hvcs  long  in  one's  memory.  I  immense!) 
admire  these  free  children  of  nature.  Just  watch  that  gin 
coming  down  the  hillside  yonder  with  her  pitclier  on  her  head- 
how  gracefully  she  poses  it  I  how  li<^htly  she  trips  I  What 
freedom,  what  ease,  what  untrammelled  movement  I  " 

**  By  George,  yes,"  Blake  answered,  taking  in  the  scene  with 
his  quick,  artistic  glance.    "  It's  glorious  I    It's  splendid  I    From 
the  purely  Ksthetio  point  of  view,  you  know,  these  women  ar« 
.far  better  and  finer  in  every  way  than  the  civilised  product." 

••  And  why  from  the  purely  lesthetic  point  of  view  alone  ?  '* 
his  companion  asked,  quickly,  with  a  shade  of  surprise.  "  Why 
not  also  viewed  as  human  beings  in  thoir  concrete  totality  ? 
Surely  there's  something  extremely  aitructive  to  a  sympathetic 
mind  in  the  simplicity,  the  naivete,  the  frank  and  unpretentious 
innate  humanity  of  the  barbaric  woman." 

•'  Oh,  hang  it  all,  you  know,  Le  Marchant,"  the  artist  expos- 
tulated in  a  half  amused  tone.  "  They're  all  very  well  as  models 
to  sketch,  but  you  can't  expect  a  civilized  man  to  be  satisfied 
permanently — on  any  high  ground — with  such  creatures  as  that, 
now." 

"  I  don't  exactly  see  why  not,"  Le  Marchant  answered 
seriously,  gazing  down  once  more  from  the  zigzag  path  on  the 
laughing  group  of  barefooted  Kabyle  girls,  with  their  smooth 
round  arms  and  their  well-turned  ankles.  ♦*  Humanity  to  me  is 
always  hun:au.  I've  lived  a  great  deal  among  many  queer  peo- 
ple— Malays  and  Arabs  and  Japanese,  and  so  forth — and  I've 
come  in  the  end  to  the  modest  conclusion  that  man,  as  man,  is 
everywhere  man,  and  man  only.  Emotionally,  at  least,  we  are 
all  of  one  blood  all  the  world  over." 

"  But  you  couldn't  conceive  yourself  marrying  a  Kabyle  girl, 
could  you  ?  " 

"  As  at  present  advised,  I  see  no  just  cause  or  impediment  to 
the  contrary." 

Blake  turned  up  his  eyes  to  heaven  for  a  moment^  in  mute 
ftmazemeiit, 

*•  Well,  I'm  not  built  that  way,  any  how,**  he  went  on,  after  a 
pause,  with  a  certain  subdued  sense  of  inward  self-congratulation. 
** '  I,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our  glorious  gains, 
Lflte  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a  beast  with  lower  pains  I ' 


.f»?'ll 


'mwrnw- 


Jv»^^ 


THS  TINTS   Of   IHZU. 


No.  thank  yon.  For  my  part,  I  agree  with  tho  poet.  I  count 
the  grey  barbarian  lower  than  the  Christian  child.  None  of 
your  squalid  savages  for  me.  If  ever  I  marry,  wiiich  I  hope  I 
sliall  bo  able  to  do  some  of  those  fine  days,  thu  girl  I  marry 
must  be  at  least  my  equal  in  hitoUoct  and  attaiimionta — and 
that,  bar  painting,  she  might  easily  manage  in  all  conscience  ; 
but  for  choice,  I  should  prefer  hdr  to  be  highly  educated — a 
Princess  Ida  sort  of  a  woman." 

"  Then  I  take  it,  you  admire  those  new-fashioned  over-educated 
epicene  creatures,"  Le  Marchant  interposed,  smiling. 

•"' Well,  not  exactly  over-educated,  perhaps,"  lilake  answered, 
apologetically  (he.  was  too  much  c  ;erawed  to  handle  epicene) 
'•  but.  at  any  rate  I  like  them  thorough  ladies,  and  well  brought 
up,  and  as  clever  as  they  make  them." 

'•  Clever.  Ah,  yes  I  That's  quite  another  thing.  Cleverness 
is  an  underlying  natural  endowment ;  but  crannncd  ;  no,  thank 
you,  not  for  me,  at  any  rate  I  " 

They  p;  ised  for  a  moment,  each  pursuing  his  o^vn  lin«  of 
thought  unchecked  ;  then  the  paniter  began  again,  in  a  musing 
voice,  "  Did  you  happen  to  see  in  the  English  papers  before  we 
left  Algiers,  that  a  Girton  girl  had  just  been  made  Third  Classic 
at  Cambridge?" 

"I  did,"  Le  Marchant  answered,  with  a  touch  of  pity  in  his 
tone  ;  "  and  I  was  heartily  sorry  for  her." 

"  Why  sorry  for  her  ?     It's  a  very  great  honour  t" 

'  Because  I  think  the  strain  of  such  a  preparation  too  great  to 
put  upon  ii  /  woman.  Then  that's  the  sort  of  girl  you'd  Uke  to 
marry,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes,  other  things  equal,  such  as  beauty  and  position, 
I'm  inclined  to  think  so.  She  must  be  pretty,  of  course,  that 
goes  without  saying — pretty  and  graceful,  and  a  lady,  and  all 
thiit  sort  of  thing  one  takes  that  for  granted  ;  but,  given  so 
much  I  should  like  her  to  be  really  well  educatod.  You  see, 
I've  never  had  any  education  to  speak  of  myself,  bo  I  should 
prefer  my  wife  to  have  enough  of  that  commodity  on  hand  for 
both  of  us." 

"  Quite  so,"  Le  Marchant  answered  with  a  faint  smile. 
'*  You'd  consent  to  put  up  in  fact  with  a  perfect  paragon,  who 
was  a  Girton  girl  and  a  Third  Classic  I  I  admire  your  modesty, 
and  I  hope  you  may  get  her." 

A  fork  in  the  road,  with  the  practical  necessity  for  deciding 
which  of  the  two  alternative  tracks  they  should  next  take,  put  s 
limit  for  the  moment  to  their  converaation. 


''^WW^W        ■       ' 


mmt 


ran    rsNTH  u>   mubm. 


1 1 


CHAPTER  IV. 


BKTBB    4    HEROnm, 


«4 


Which  way  shall  we  go?  "  Blake  asketi,  halting  his  mule  for 
a  second  where  the  paths  divided. 

"  I  leave  these  questions  always  to  the  divine  arhitrament  of 
my  patron  goddess,"  Le  Marchant  answered  -lightly,  tossing  a 
sou,  and  HttJe  knowing  how  much  his  future  fate  depended  upon 
the  final  decision.  "  Let  chance  decide.  Heads,  right !  tails, 
left !  Tlie  heads  have  it.  Hi,  you,  Ahmed  or  Ah,  or  whatever 
your  blessed  name  is,"  lie  went  on  in  Arabic,  to  the  men  behind, 
**  do  you  know  where  this  path  on  the  right  leads  to  ?  " 

"  To  the  mountain  of  the  Beni-Merzoug,  Excellency,"  the 
ragged  Arab  nearest  his  mule  made  answer,  respectfully.  "  It's 
a  good  village  for  you  to  stop  at,  as  Allah  decrees.  The  Beni- 
Merzoug  are  the  most  famous  makers  of  jewellery  and  pottery 
among  all  the  Kabylea." 

"  That'll  just  suit  our  book,  I  say,"  Le  Marchant  went  on  in 
English,  translating  the  remark  m  the  vernacular  to  Blake. 
"  Chance,  as  usual,  has  decided  rightly.  A  wonderful  goddess. 
To  the  Beni-Merzoug  let  it  be  at  once  then."  And  he  pocketed 
the  sou  that  had  sealed  his  fortune.  Oh,  fateful  sou,  to  be  gilt 
hereafter  in  puresi,  gold,  and  worn  round  fair  lady's  neck  in  a 
jewelled  locket  I    • 

They  mounted  still,  past  rocky  ledges,  where  hardly  a  goat 
could  find  a  dubious  foothold,  but  where  Kabyle  industry  had 
nevertheless  sown  pathetic  plots  or  strips  of  corn  or  cabbages — 
for  is  there  not  pathos  in  ineffective  labour  ? — till  they  came  at 
last,  late  in  the  afternoon,  to  a  grey  old  village,  grimly  perched 
on  the  summit  of  a  minor  mountain.  "  These  are  the  Beni- 
Merzoug,"  the  Arabs  said,  halting  their  mules  m  a  line  at  th(' 
entry  of  the  street.  "  Here  the  track  stops.  We  can  go  no 
further." 

*•  Let's  look  about  for  a  spot  to  pitch  our  tent  upon  then,"  Le 
Marchant  exclaimed,  as  they  unloaded  their  burden.  •*  No  ias} 
job  h'Teabouts,  either,  I  should  say.  On  the  desert,  one  bao 
ftlways  Uie  embarrassment  of  riches  in  that  respect ;   here,  ol 


THS    TKNTB    OP    8HXII. 


81 


thei3e  rugged  rocky  slopes,  it  would  be  hard  to  find   ten  iqaare 

yards  of  level  ground  anywhere." 

Nevertheless,  after  a  quarter-of-an-hour'a  dili^'ent  search,  not 
unembarrassed  by  the  curiosity  of  the  Kabylos  a3  to  the  new 
comers,  a  spot  was  found,  close  by  the  village  headman's  house, 
in  the  shadow  of  a  pretty  little  white-domed  tomb,  overhung  by 
ash-trees,  from  whose  spreading  boughs  the  wild  vine  drooped  in 
graceful  tresses.  It  seemed  to  Blake  the  absolute  ideal  summer 
cumping-place.  Around,  great  masses  of  tumbled  mountairi!^ 
swayed  and  tossed  like  the  waves  of  a  boisterous  sea  ;  below, 
deep  ravines  hung  in  mid-air,  with  their  thick  covering  of  Medi- 
terranean pine  and  evergreen  oak  aad  Spanish  chestnut ;  while 
above,  in  the  distance,  the  silent  white  peaks  of  the  snowy  Djur 
jura  still  gleamed  and  shjmmered,  high  over  the  hill-tops,  in  the 
evening  sun.  The  panitor  could  have  stood  and  gazed  at  it  for 
hijurs,  but  for  the  need  for  action  ;  it  was  wi^h  an  ell'ort  that  he 
turned  from  that  lovely  prospect  to  bear  nis  part  in  the  prosaic 
work  of  tent-pegging  and  unpa'iking  for  the  evening's  rest. 

By  this  time  a  noisy  crowd  of  Kabyles  from  the  village  had 
gathered  round  the  spot  selected  by  the  visitors,  and  begun  to 
canvass  in  eager  terms  the  motive  of  their  visit  and  the  nature 
of  their  arrangements.  The  natives  were  clearly  ill-satisfied  at 
their  choice.  Le  Marchant,  though  a  tolerable  Arabic  scholar, 
knew  not  one  word  as  yet  of  the  Kabyle  language  ;  so  he  was 
unable  to  hold  any  communication  with  the  men,  who  them- 
selves were  equally  guiltless  for  the  most  part  of  either  French 
or  Arabic.  It  was  evident,  however,  that  the  Kabyles  as  a  whole 
regarded  their  proceedings  with  extreme  distaste,  and  that  the 
head  man  of  the  village  and  a  girl  by  his  side,  who  seemed  to  be 
either  his  wife  or  daughter,  had  considerable  trouble  in  restrain- 
ing this  feeling  from  breaking  out  into  acts  of  open  hostility. 

The  girl,  in  particular,  at  once  arrested  both  the  young 
Englishmen's  passing  attention.  It  was  no  wonder  if  she  did. 
So  glorious  a  figure  they  had  seldom  seen.  Tall  and  lithe,  with 
strong  and  well-made  limbs,  she  seemed  scarcely  so  dark  as 
many  English  ladies,  but  with  a  face  of  peculiar  strength  and 
statutesque  beauty.  In  type,  she  was  not  unlike  the  merry 
Kabyle  maiden  who  had  looked  up  at  them  and  laughed  as  they 
passed  the  vrasliing  place  by  the  torrent  that  morning  ;  but  her 
style  was  in  every  way  nobler  and  higher.  The  features  were  bold 
and  sculpturesque  and  powerful ;  serene  intelligence  shone  out 
from  her  hi"  eyes  ;  she  looked,  Le  Marchant  thought,  as  a  Spartan 
maiden  might  have  looked  m  the  best  days  of  Sparta — a^  free  a>i 
sh«»  was  aupple.  aiui  so  stront;  as  she  was  beautiful.     At  first 


■TT 


""''T' 


«"IIB  1 


■^^^^■^•■^■■■•■•^•■n^i 


•1 


THS   TENT3   OV   eH£M. 


I  ■ 


whilt  the  earlier  preparations  were  being  made  ;  she  hung  aloof 
from  the  new-comers  as  if  ii!  ^ptn^ryiless  awe  ;  but  after  a  short 
time,  as  the  crowd  around  gitw  ui>,^  unruly  and  boisterous,  and 
the  attempts  at  intercommunica:ion  bugan  to  succeed,  she 
approached  somewhat  nearer,  and,  equally  removal  from 
coquetry  or  boldness,  watched  their  proceedhigs  with  the  uLniost 
interest. 

At  the  outset,  while  the  Spaniard  and  the  Arabs  helped  in  the 
work  of  setting  up  camp,  conversation  between  the  new-comers 
was  carried  on  almost  entirely  in  pigeon  French.  And  of  French, 
even  in  its  pigeon  variety.,  the  girl  was  clearly  ignorant. 

••  Voiu  ne  paries  pus  Francais  /  "  Le  Marcliaut  asked  her, 
tentatively. 

But  the  Kabyle  maiden  shook  hev  head  with  a  vigorous  dissent, 
and  put  her  finger  to  her  mouth  in  sign  of  silence.  So  he 
turned  away,  and  went  on  with  his  unpacking,  vhile  the  girl, 
poised  in  a  most  picturesque  attitude,  with  her  arm  on  the  ledge 
of  the  littlu  domed  tomb,  stood  by  expectant,  with  a  mutely 
attentive  face,  or  made  some  remark  now  and  again,  in  a  low 
voice,  to  hen  fellow  countrymen,  who  stood  aloof  in  the  distance. 
They  seemt  d  to  treat  her  with  unusual  respect,  as  a  person  of 
some  distiuriion.  No  doubt  she  must  be  the  headman's  wife, 
Lo  Marchaiit  thought,  from  the  tone  of  command  in  which  she 
spoke  to  ti turn. 

♦*  Hand  me  that  rope  there,  quick,"  the  naturalist  called  out 
at  last,  in  English  to  Blake.  ••  Look  sharp,  will  you  ?  I  want 
to  fasten  it  down  at  once  to  this  peg  here." 

The  beautiful  Kabyle  girl  started  at  the  words  in  the  most  pro- 
found surprise  ;  but,  to  Le  Marchant's  astonishment,  rose  up  at 
once,  and  handed  him  the  rope,  as  though  it  was  her  he  had 
asked  for  it,  w  thout  a  moment's  hesitation. 

••  Curious  how  quick  these  half-barbaric  people  are  to  under- 
stand whatever  one  says  to  them  in  an  unknown  language,"  Le 
Marchant  went  on,  in  a  satisfied  tone,  to  his  English  companion. 
••  This  girl  snapped  up  what  I  meant  at  once  by  the  inflexion  of 
my  voice,  yu  sue,  when  I  asked  you  for  the  rope,  though  I 
never  even  pointed  my  hand  towards  what  I  wanted." 

••  I  can  talk  like  that  myself,"  the  girl  answered  quietly,  in 
English  almost  as  good  as  Le  Marchant's  own,  though  with  a 
very  faint  flavour  of  liquid  Oriental  accent.  "  I  hoard  you  ask 
for  the  rope,  and  I  fancied,  of  course,  you  were  speaking  to  me, 
and  80  I  gave  it  to  you.  But  I  thought,"  she  added,  with  much 
natural  dignity,  "you  might  have  asked  me  a  little  more 
polild/." 


>■.■,  ■*.,'■, 


tarn   TJfiNtf   Of   BHSll. 


If  tlie  girl  was  surprised  to  hear  Le  Marchant,  Le  Marohant, 
In  turn,  was  positively  thunderstruck  to  hear  the  girl.  He  coiil«l 
hardly  believe  the  direct  evidence  of  his  own  ears. 

"  Do  they  speak  with  tongues  in  these  parts  I  "  he  ori^d, 
amazed ;  •*  or  has  much  wandering  made  me  mad,  I  wowd/^r  ? 
Come  ovei"  here,  Blake,  nnd  explain  this  mystery.  This  lady 
positivbly  answered  me  nj  r.nglish." 

"  We  speak  with  our  tougui  s,  of  c  -urse,"  the  girl  went  on, 
half  angrily,  misunderstanding  his  old-fashioned  Scriptural 
phrase,  "  just  the  same  as  you  and  everybody  else  do.  We're 
human,  I  suppose ;  we're  rfot  monkeys.  But,  perhaps,  you 
think  like  all  other  Frenchmen,  that  Kabyles  are  no  better  than 
dogs  and  jackals." 

She  spoke  with  pride,  and  fire  flashed  from  her  eyes.  She  was 
clearly  angry.  Le  Marchant  thought  her  pride  and  auger 
became  her. 

♦•  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  went  on  in  haste,  t'ory  deferentially 
raising  his  hat  by  pure  instinct,  for  he  saw  that  without  any 
intention  of  his  own  he  had  hurt  her  feelings.  •'  I  really  don't 
think  you  quite  understood  me.«  I  was  surprised  to  find  any- 
body speaking  my  own  tongue  here  so  far  ill  Kabylie." 

"Then  you  aren't  French  at  all?"  the  girl  asked,  eagerly, 
with  a  flush  of  expectation. 

♦'  No,  not  French — English ;  and  I'm  sorry  I  seemed,  against 
ray  will,  to  annoy  you." 

"  If  you're  English  we're  friends,"  the  girl  answered,  looking 
up  at  him  with  a  flushed  face,  as  naturally  as  if  she  had  met  with 
stray  Englishmen  every  day  of  her  life.  "  It  was  my  father  who 
taught  me  to  talk  like  this — I  loved  my  father — and  he  was  an 
Enghshman." 

Le  Marchant  and  Blake  both  opened  their  eyes  together  in 
mute  astonishment. 

*'  And  what's  your  name  ?  "  the  painter  ventured  to  asS:,  half 
dumb  with  surprise,  alter  a  moment's  pause. 

"  My  name's  Meriem,"  the  girl  replied,  simply. 

•'MeriemI  Ah,  yes,  I  dare  say;  that's  Kabyle.  But  your 
father's  ?  " 

"  My  father's  was  Yusuf." 

"  Yusuf  ?  "  Le  Marchant  cried.  "  Wliy  Yusufs  not  English  I 
The  English  for  that,  you  know  is  plain  Joseph.  Was  your 
father's  name  Joseph  somebody  ?  " 

•*  No,"  the  girl  answered,  shaking  her  head  firmly,  "  Hii 
name  was  Yusuf.     Only  Yusuf.     Uis   Kabyle   name  I  mean. 


w 


fWW 


■■.""':,LT'5!"".''-.V"iW»A!W  >r 


'  ■  "m 


84 


tHX   IKMII  OJr   BUKM. 


And  mine's  Meriem.  i.u  English,  Tnsnf  ased  klwayi  to  tell  me, 
it's  Mary." 

"  But  your  surname  ?  "  Le  Marchant  suggested,  with  a  smile 
at  her  simplicity. 

Meriem  shook  her  head  once  more,  with  a  puzzled  look.  *'  I 
don't  understand  that,  at  all,"  she  said,  with  a  dubious  air.  *'  I 
don't  know  all  English.  You  say  some  things  I  don't  make  out. 
I  never  heard  that  word  before — surname." 

"  Look  here,"Le  Marchant  went  on,  endeavouring  to  siiiplify 
matters  to  her  vague  little  mind.  *'  Have  you  any  other  name 
at  all  but  Meriem." 

'*  Yes,  I  told  you — Mary." 

"  Ah,  of  course.  I  know.  But  besides  that  again.  Think  ; 
any  other  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  down  with  a  bewildered  glance  at  her  pretty 
bare  feet.  "  I'm  sure  I  can't  say,"  she  said,  shaking  her  heaa. 
'♦  I  never  heard  any." 

"  But  your  father  had  I  Surely  he  must  have  borne  an  Eng- 
lish name.  You  must  have  heard  him  say  it.  lie's  dead,  I 
suppose.     But  can't  you  remember  ?  " 

•*  Yes,  Yusuf  s  dead,  and  so's  my  mother,  and  I  live  with  my 
uncle.  My  uncle's  the  amine,  you  know,  the  head  of  the  village." 
And  she  waved  her  hand  toward  him  with  native  gracefulness. 

*•  Well,  what  was  your  father's  English  name  ?  "  Le  Marcliant 
persisted,  piqued  by  this  strange  and  unexpected  mystery,  ••  and 
how  did  he  come  to  be  living  here  in  Algeria  ?  " 

♦•  He  had  an  English  name,  a  sort  of  a  double  name,"  Meriem 
answered  dreamily,  after  a  moment's  pause,  during  which  it  was 
clear  she  had  been  fishing  with  small  success  in  the  very  depths 
of  her  memory.  *♦  It  was  Somebody  Sometliing,  I  remember 
that.  He  told  me  that  English  name  of  his,  too,  one  day,  and 
begged  me  never,  never  to  forget  it.  It  was  to  be  .very  useful  to 
me.  But  I  was  not  to  tell  it  to  anybody  on  any  account.  It 
was  a  great  secret,  and  I  was  to  keep  it  strictly.  You  see,  it  was 
so  long  ago,  more  than  three  years  now,  and  I  was  so  little  then. 
I've  never  spoken  this  way,  ever  since  Yusuf  died,  before.  And 
I've  quite  forgotten  what  the  name  was  that  he  told  me.  I  otily 
remember  his  Kabyle  name,  Yusuf,  and  his  French  one,  of  course 
— that  was  Joseph  Leboutillier." 

♦♦  What?  he  had  a  Frencli  name,  too  ?  "  Le  Marchant  cried, 
looking  up  in  fresh  surprise. 

"  Oh  yes,  he  had  a  French  one,"  Meripm  answered  quietly,  M 
if  every  one  might  be  expected  to  know  such  simple  facts. 
**  And  that,  of  course,  was  what  they  wanted  to  shoot  him  for." 


mrw^l^ 


'-,>r» 


tILB   XKMTB  or   IBBM. 


CHAPTlR  V. 


PBOBLKH8. 


k'T  that  very  moment,  before  Le  Marchant  could  gratify  his 
uriosit)^  an)'  further,  a  voice  from  the  crowd  of  Kabyie  bystand- 
■ra  called  out  sternly,  in  a  commanding  tone,  **  Meriem  I  Ho 
igha  t  "  and  the  girl,  with  a  start,  hurried  off  at  the  sound  into 
lie  eager  group  of  her  own  fellow-tribesmen.  The  crowd 
athered  round  hor  in  hot  debate.  For  awhile,  Le  Marchant 
md  Blake  observed  with  dismay  that  their  new  friend  was  being 
•losely  questioned  as  to  what  she  herself  had  said  in  the  unknown 
Longue  to  the  infidel  strangers,  and  what  the  infidel  strangers 
!uid  said  in  return'  with  so  much  apparent  kindliness  to  her. 
Vngry  glances  were  cast  from  time  to  time  in  their  direction,  and 
voices  were  raised,  and  fingers  and  hands  gesticulated  fiercely. 
liut,  after  awhile,  the  beautiful  girl's  calm  report  seemed  some- 
what to  still  the  excitement  of  the  indignant  Kabyles.  She 
stood  before  them  with  outstretched  arms  and  open  palms,  pro- 
testing, as  Le  Marchant  gathered  from  her  eloquent  attitude, 
that  these  were  indeed  friends  and  not  enemies.  Her  protest 
prevailed.  After  a  few  minutes  interval,  she  returned  once  more, 
with  a  smiling  faqe,  this  time  accompanied  by  her  uncle,  the 
Headman,  and  two  other  Kabyles  of  evident  tribal  importance ; 
and  the  three  proceeded  to  hold  an  informal  palaver  with  the 
strangers  from  Europe,  Meriem  acting  the  roU  of  interpreter 
between  the  two  high  contracting  parties. 

The  Headman  spoke  a  few  words  first  to  the  girl  who  endea- 
voured, to  the  best  of  her  ability,  to  impart  their  meaning  in 
English  to  the  attentive  new-comers. 

"My  uncle  asks,"  she  said,  "what  you  have  come  for,  and 
why  you  have  brought  all  these  strange  things  on  the  ground 
here  with  you?" 

"My  friend  is  an  artist,"  Le  Marchant  answered  simply,  "and 
I  am  a  naturalist,  a  man  of  science.  "  We've  eouie  to  see  the 
mountains  and  the  country,  and  all  that  grows  in  tliem." 

Miiricra  shook  her  head  with  a  gesture  of  deprecation. 

"I  don't  know  those  words,"  she  said.  "  Yusuf  never  used 
them.  1  don't  know  what  is  an  artist  and  what  is  a  naturalist. 
Why  do  you  want  to  see  the  country?"  And  she  added  a  few 
«f(  j^frnpop  rnnidlv  in  Kabyie  to  the  three  natives. 


n^^PpiiniFlilli^    ;.";,' If"     '"■ 


■*^^^  ■'■'■•'•'.   '•  ■■■ ''-■'*:,'--.'i-V""5''"^i^^J^P^'ff(p 


ffBs  nurrf  or  raxM. 


fe^ 


ii|^-  ''^■ 


■'  t:  :i 


r-; 


Le  Marchant  saw  his  mistake  at  once.  The  English  words  he 
had  used  were  above  the  girl's  simple  childish  level.  He  must 
come  down  to  her  platform.     He  tried  over  again. 

'*  My  friend  paints  pictures,"  he  said,  with  a  smile,  holding  up 
»  half-finished  sketch  of  Blake's,  "  and  I  shoot  birds,  and  pick 
plants  and  flowers  and  insects." 

Meriem  nodded  a  satisfied  nod  of  complete  comprehension, 
and  reported  his  speech  in  Kabyle  to  her  uncle. 

"  My  people  say,"  she  went  on  again,  after  a  brief  colloquy 
with  her  three  compatriots,  "  why  do  you  want  so  much  pencils 
and  paper  ?  Have  you  come  to  do  good  or  harm  to  Kabyle  ? 
Does  not  the  pulling  out  of  pencils  and  paper  mean  much  mis> 
chief  ?  " 

"  Some  of  the  paper  is  for  my  friend  to  paint  on,"  Le  Mar- 
chant  8,nswered,  with  the  calmness  of  a  man  well  used  to  such 
dealings  with  suspicious  foreigners,  "  and  part  of  it  is  for  myself  . 
to  dry  plants  and  flowers  in."  * 

•'  My  uncle  says,"  Meriem  went  on  once  more,  after  another 
short  colloquy,  ••  are  you  not  come  to  plant  out  .-ew  roads  and 
forts,  and  will  not  the  Kabyles  be  forced  to  work  on  them, 
whether  they  will,  or  whether  they  will  not  ?  Have  not  the 
French,  who  are  the  enemies  of  my  people,  sent  you  to  look  if 
the  country  is  good,  so  that  they  may  send  Frenchmen  to  take 
it,  and  plough  it  ?  Did  they  not  make  roads  the  same  way  to 
Fort  National,  and  give  the  land  of  the  Kabyles  over  there  to  be 
ploughed  and  used  by  their  own  soldiers  ?  " 

"  Explain  to  your  people,"  Le  Marchant  said  gently,  in  his  cool 
way,  "  that  we  are  English  like  your  fatlier,  not  French,  like  the 
people  who  live  at  Fort  National.  We  are  Yusufs  countrymen. 
We  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  Government  at  all.  We  plan 
rib  roads,  and  build  no  forts.  We  have  only  come  for  our  own 
amusement,  to  paint  the  mountains,  and  to  see  what  flowers  and 
birds  live  in  them." 

"  And  did  you  know  Yusuf  ?  "  Meriem  cried,  excitedly, 

"  No,"  Le  Marchant  answered,  and  the  girl's  face  fell  sadly  at 
the  answer.  "  But  we  are  friends  as  he  was.  We  wish  well  to 
the  Kabyles,  and  all  true  believers." 

When  Meriem  had  translated  and  dilated  upon  these  last 
remarks  with  her  own  comments,  the  Kabyles  seemed  greatly 
mollified  and  reassured.  The  Headman  ni  particular,  with  some 
effusion,  seized  Le  Marchant's  hand,  fl,nd  wrung  it  hard,  mur- 
muring many  times  over  fervently,  as  he  did  so,  "  Ingleez  good, 
Frbncb  bad  ;  Yusuf  Ligleez,"  with  considerable  empressewf^it. 


^  ^TBF»3f35P!^JP9^Wf!P: 


rUX    TIMTI    or    8UKM. 


•7 


.,!..  of  Fm: 

'MMl'IIIX 


titu 


Hsh, 

and 


you  see,"  Meriem 
my  father,  in  the 


•«  He  has  picked  up  a  ffw  m'ov 
went  on,  refiectively,  "  \'ynu\ 
old  days,  talk  so  much  iii;^.  t 

II  was  all  80  simple  and  ii.aiiiiil  to  licrsolf  that  she  seemed 
hardly  to  realise  bow  strange  it  sounded  in  the  uuacoastomed 
ears  of  the  two  new  comera. 

But  they  had  no  time  then  to  gratify  their  curiosity  by  making 
any  further  investigations  or  inquiries  into .  the  singular  mystery 
of  Meriem 's  antecedents.  Strange  as  the  problem  was,  they 
must  lay  it  aside  unsolved  for  the  present.  EvcMiing  was  coming 
on,  and  the  practical  work  of  getting  things  slap-shape  in  the 
tent  for  the  night  inexorably  demanded  all  their  immediate  ener- 
gies. There  were  the  Arabs  to  be  paid,  and  the  mules  to  be 
dismissed.  Diego,  the  Mahonnais  servant,  httd  still  to  light  a 
fire  of  green  sticks,  and  prepare  supper ;  and  the  two  young 
Englishmen  had  to  make  their  own  beds  before  they  could  lie  on 
thein,  and  prepare  their  quarters  generally  against  the  chance  of 
rain  or  hail,  or  cold  wind,  or  thunderstorm.  Meriem  and  the 
three  Kabyles,  now  passively  friendly,  stopped  and  looked  on  with 
profomid  interest  at  all  these  arrangements.  The  men.  for  their 
part,  were  too  proud  to  do  more  than  stand  and  gaze,  with  many 
expressions  of  wonder  and  surprise, — '•  Allah  is  great  I  Ilis 
works  are  marvellous  I  " — at  the  lamps  and  etnas,  and  tin  bis- 
cuit-boxes, that  came  forth,  one  after  another,  in  bewildering 
array,  from  the  magical  recesses  of  Le  Marchant's  capacious 
leather  travelling-case.  But  Meriem,  more  accustomed  to  house- 
hold work,  and  even  to  a  certain  amount  of  something  very  like 
what  we  in  England  would  call  drudgery,  lent  a  willing  hand, 
with  womanly  instinct,  in  picking  up  sticks,  and  blowing  the  jBre, 
and  helping  to  lay  out  the  strange  metal  pans,  and  plates,  and 
pipkins. 

••  My  people  gay  they're  not  afraid  now,"  she  remarked,  with  a 
gracious  smile  to  Blake,  as  she  looked  up,  all  gUnving,  from  the 
fire  she  was  puffing  with  her  own  pretty  mouih.  "If  you're 
really  English,  they  know  you're  good,  for  i  usuf  was  good, 
and  he  was  an  Englislwiian.  Besides,  I've  told  them  I'm  sure 
by  your  talk  you're  really  English  :  I  know  it  because  it's  just 
like  Yusuf's.  The  reason  they  were  afraid  at  first  was  partly 
because  they  thought  you  were  the  wicked  Frenchmen  come  to 
make  a  road  and  plant  vines,  the  same  as  happened  to  our  friends 
the  Beni-Yenni,  whom  they  turned  out  to  die  on  the  mountains. 
And  then  they  were  displeased,  too,  because  you  pitched  your 
tent  too  near  the  tomb.     They  thought  that  was  wrong,  because 


•sj^SWWl^yy;-. 


\  \ 


»a 


THB   nXTS   Of   SHAM. 


ihis  ground'i  saored.     Nobody  comes  here  with  ihoes  on   hit 
feet.     It's  the  tomb  of  a  Marabout." 

•'  What's  a  Marabout  ? "  Blake  asked,  looking  up  good- 
humouredly.  He  was  a  handsome  young  fellow,  and  his  teeth, 
when  he  smiled,  showed  white  and  even. 

•*  A  holy  man — I  think  you  call  it  a  priest  in  English — who 
served  Allah,  and  read  the  Koran  much  ;  and  now  that  he's 
dead,  he's  made  into  a  saint,  and  our  people  come  to  say  prayers 
at  his  tomb  here." 

I*  But  we  can  shift  the  tent  if  you  Uke,"  Le  Marchant  put  in, 
eagerly,  for  he  knew  how  desirable  it  is  in  dealing  with  Mahom* 
medans  to  avoid  shocking  in  any  way,  their  fierce  and  fanatical 
religious  sentiments.  •'  We  thought  it  was  only  an  ordinary 
tomb,  we'd  no  idea  we  were  trespassing  on  a  sacred  enclosure." 

••  Oh  no ;  it  doesn't  matter  now,  at  all,"  Meriem  answered, 
with  a  nod  toWards  the  three  observant  Kabyles.  •*  Those  two 
men  who  are  standing  beside  my  uncle  are  marabouts  too — very 
holy ;  and  as  soon-  as  they  heard  you  were  really  Enghsh,  they 
were  quite  satisfied,  for  they  loved  my  father  and  protected  him 
when  the  French  wanted  to  catch  him  and  shoot  him.  They've 
looked  in  the  Koran,  and  tried  the  book  ;  and  they  say  the  bones 
of  the  just  will  sleep  none  the  worse  for  two  just  men  sleeping 
peaceably  beside  them." 

♦•  Whoever  her  father  was,"  Le  Marchant  remarked  in  a  low 
tone  to  Blake,  **it's  cbar,  anyhow,  that  he's  fortunately  predis- 
posed these  suspicious  Kabyles  in  favour  of  his  own  fellow- 
countrymen  and  successors.  We're  lucky,  indeed,  to  have 
lighted  by  accident  on  probably  the  only  Kabyle  village  in  Algeria 
where  a  single  soul  can  speak  a  word  of  English.  We  find  an 
interpreter  ready  to  our  hand.  I'm  glad  I  trusted,  as  usual,  to 
chance.     My  patron  goddess  has  not  deserted  me." 

•*  And  they  say,"  Meriem  went  on,  after  a  few  more  word* 
interchanged  in  a  low  voice  with  her  own  people,  ♦*  that  they'll 
sell  you  milk  and  eggs  and  flour,  and,  as  long  as  you  stop,  I 
may  come  down  here  at  times,  and  ....  and  explain  the 
things,  you  know,  you  want  to  say  to  them." 

"  Act  as  interpreter,"  Le  Marchant  suggested,  quickly. 

Meriem's  face  hghted  up  with  a  fiash  of  recognition  at  the 
sound.  "  Yes,  that's  the  word,"  she  said.  •*  I  couldn't  remem- 
ber it.  Literpret  what  you  say  to  them.  I'd  forgotten  *  inter- 
pret.' I  expect  I've  forgotten  a  great  many  words.  'Translate'!' 
another.  I  recollect  it  now.  You  see,  it'o  lo  long  since  I'Tt 
spoken  Enj^liah.'* 


tSMTt   «V 


•♦  The  wondeT  is  that  you  remember  any  at  all,"  Le  Marchant 

answered ,  with  a  polite  httle  wave.  It  was  impossible  to  treat 
that  barefooted  Kabyle  girl  otherwise  than  as  a  lady.  "  But 
it'll  icon  come  back  now  if  you  often  run  down  and  talk  with  us 
at  the  tent  here.  We  shall  want  you  to  help  us  with  the  buying 
and  selling." 

"  Yusuf  would  have  likod  that,"  Meriem  replied,  with  a  faint 
sigh.  "  He  was  anxious  that  I  should  talk  often,  and  shouldn't 
on  any  account  forget  my  English." 

Le  Marchant  was  silent.  That  naive  expression  of  her  natural 
afifection  touched  him  to  the  heart  by  its  quaint  simplicity. 

At  that  moment,  Diego,  looking  up  from  the  pan  he  was  hold- 
ing over  the  fire  with  the  omelette  for  supper,  called  out  sharply, 
'•  Viens  done,  Mouresqu«l  Donne  la  main  icil  Viens  vite,  jt  te 
dis.     Nous  te  voulons  pour  nous  nider  !  " 

In  a  second  Meriem  drew  herself  up  proudly,  for  though  she 
did  not  understand  the  meaning  of  the  words,  or  the  habitual 
insolence  to  the  indiffenes  implied  in  the  tutoieinent,  she  caught 
readily  enough  at  the  imperiousness  of  the  tone  and  the  rude 
vulgarity  of  the  gesture  that  accompanied  it.  The  Kabyles,  too, 
looked  on  angrily  at  this  interference  of  a  mere  European  with 
one  of  their  own  women — as  who  should  pr3sume  to  use  their 
beast  of  burden  without  the  preliminary  politeness  of  asking 
them  for  the  loan  of  it.  But  Le  Marchant  intervened  with  a 
conciliatory  and  deferential  wave  of  his  hand  toward  the  offended 
Meriem.  "  Overlook  it,"  he  said  softly,  '•  ami  forgive  the  fel- 
low's rudeness.  He  knows  no  better  ;  he's  only  a  boor  ;  I  shall 
take  care  to  teach  him  politer  manners. — Diego,"  he  went  on  in 
French  to  the  Mahonnais,  •*  if  you  dare  to  speak  so  to  this  young 
lady  again,  remember  you  go  back  that  moment  to  Algiers 
witliout  your  wages.  We  depend  here  entirely  on  the  goodwill 
of  the  indigenes.     Treat  her  as  you  would  treat  a  European  lady." 

Diego  could  hardly  believe  his  senses.  Cette  demoiselle-ci,  for- 
sooth, of  a  mere  indigene !  He  turned  back  to  the  perusal  of  his 
peninsular  cookery,  full  of  muttered  discontent.  '•  Pigs  of 
natives,"  he  murmured,  half  aloud  to  himself,  shredding  in  some 
garlic.  *'  Like  a  European  lady  !  Things  have  come  to  a  pretty 
pass  in  Algeria,  indeed,  if  we  must  say  Ma'amzelle  to  a  canaille 
of  a  Mauresque  I  " 

But  the  Kabyles  nodded  their  hooded  heads  with  a  comical  air 
of  sagacioua  triumph.     *' They  are  English,  indeed,"  the  Head 
man  exclaimed  aloud  in  his  own  tongue  to  his  friends.     "  By 
the  staff  of  the  Prophet  tliey  are  indeed    English.     Allah   be 


f- 


■•«• 


40 


nU    TBUffl   or   SHSM. 


praised  that  we  hnve  soen  tliis  day !  These  are  good  wordi  I 
They  take  the  part  of  a  Kabyle  girl  against  a  dog  of  an  infideJ." 

""We  go  now,"  Meriein  siiid,  moving  back  to  her  tribesmen, 
and  waving  an  aciieu  to  the  Enghalimon  with  her  delicate  small 
hand.  '*  We  know  you  are  friends.  Fear  no  disturbance  ;  this 
place  is  youra.     We  will  send  you  a  cons-coiui." 

•'  A  C0US-C0U8  !  What's  that  ?  "  Blake  asked,  turning  round  to 
his  more  experienced  companion. 

"  Oh,  just  the  ordinary  native  dish,  a  sort  of  porridge  or 
macaroni,"  Le  Marchant  answered  sotto  voce.  ••  It's  the  cus- 
tomary mark  of  politeness  and  recognition  to  a  stranger,  like 
paying  a  first  call  among  the  Arabs  and  Kabyles.  To  send  you 
a  cous-cous  is  to  make  a  friend  of  you.  We  needn't  eat  it,  you 
know.  It's  a  sloppy,  soppy,  pappy  mess,  evan  when  made  by  a 
European,  and  the  native  cookery  isn't  likely  to  improve  it." 

•*  From  her  hands,"  Blake  answered  with  unpremediated 
enthusiasm,  "  I  could  eat  anything,  even  a  dog-biscuit.  What 
luck  we're  in,  Le  Marchant.  She's  a  pp'f^ndid  creature.  A 
model  of  ten  thousand.  I  could  hardly  take  my  eyes  off  her  as 
long  as  she  stopped  here." 

Le  Marchant  gazed  round  at  him  with  a  sharp  and  hasty 
glance  of  inquiry.  *•  So  you've  altered  your  opinion,  have  you," 
he  asked,  wonderingly,  "  about  the  merits  and  potentialities  of 
these  natural  Kabyle  women  ?  " 

**  Oh,  viewed  as  a  model  only,  I  mean,"  Blake  corrected  in 
haste.  "  I  should  love  to  paint  her,  of  course  ;  she's  so  splendid 
as  an  example  of  the  pure  unadulterated  human  figure.  I  don't 
go  back  one  word  of  what  I  said  otherwise.  For  wives,  I  prefer 
them  civilised  and  educated.  But  if  it  comes  to  that,  you  must 
remember,  Le  Marchant,  the  girl's  at  least  one  half  an  English- 
woman." 

As  he  spoke,  Meriem,  tripping  lightly  and  gracefully  up  the 
rocky  path  above,  that  led  by  zigzag  gradients  to  her  uncle's  hut 
— for  it  was  hardly  more — turned  round  again  and  waved  them 
a  last  farewell  with  that  faultless  arm  of  hers.  Both  young  men 
raised  their  hats  by  some  inner  impulse  as  to  an  English  lady. 
Then  the  Kabyles  turned  round  a  sharp  ledge  of  rock,  and  left 
them  undisturbed  to  their  supper  and  their  conjectures.  Le 
Marchant  gazing  after  her,  saw  a  vision  of  glory.  Blake  saw 
but  the  picture  of  n  Tn-eek  gnddp'^s.  waving  her  arm,  as  on  aom« 
antique  vautj,  to  i'aiMia  or  Eiiu^iuxun. 


■>A 


k 


■iiiiii 


TSMTS  OF   ttlUS|« 


A] 


CHAPTER  VI. 


mil   KNTVXTT   EXPLAINS    HERSELF. 

That  same  afternoon,  in  London  town,  where  the  atmosphere 
was  perhaps  a  trifle  less  clear  than  on  the  mountains  of  Eabylie, 
Thomas  Kynnersley  Whitmarsh,  Q.C.,  the  eminent  authority 
upon  probate  and  divorce  cases,  was  somewhat  surprised  at 
receiving  an  unexpected  Visit  in  his  own  chambers  in  Old  Square, 
Lincoln's  Inn,  from  his  pretty  little  niece,  Iris  Knyvett.  The 
Third  Classic  had  by  this  time  got  over  the  first  flush  and  whirl 
of  congratulations  and  flattery.  Her  fame  had  almost  begun  to 
pall  upon  her.  The  Times  had  had  a  leader  in  her  honour,  of 
course,  and  the  illustrated  papers  had  eni,^raved  her  portrait, 
from  which  a  captious  world  rejoiced  to  leurn  she  did, not  wear 
blue  spectables.  Fogeys,  of  whom  the  present  writer  is  one,  had 
croaked  in  letters  to  the  public  press  about  the  danger  of  the 
precedent  to  all  her  sex  ;  and  enthusiastic  speakers  on  ladies' 
platforms  had  hailed  her  success  with  jubilant  whoops  as  the 
first  dawn  of  a;  new  era  for  emancipated  womanhood.  The 
Third  Classic,  in  short,  had  been  the  talk  of  the  town — a  nine 
days'  wonder.  But  owing  to  the  opportune  intervention  of  a 
small  boy  who  could  play  the  violin,  and  a  new  design  for  blow- 
ing up  the  Czar  in  the  Summer  Palace,  the  hubbub  was  begi^'ning 
to  die  away  a  little  now,  and  Iris  Knyvett  wag  able  to  face  a 
trifle  more  calmly  the  momentous  question  of  her  own  future 
career  and  place  in  the  universe. 

It  is  a  characteristic  of  the  present  age  that  even  women  have 
begun  at  last  to  develop  the  rudiments  of  a  social  conscience. 
No  longer  content  to  feed  like  drones  at  the  world's  table,  giving 
nothing  in  return  towards  the  making  of  the  feast  save  the 
ornamental  effect  of  their  own  gracious  smiles  and  pretty  faces, 
they  have  awoke  with  a  start  in  these  latter  days  to  the  sense  of 
a  felt  need  in  life — to  a  consciousness  of  the  waut  of  a  definite 
mission.  It  was  a  mission  that  Iris  was  now  in  search  of,  and  it 
was  on  the  subject  of  the  choice  or  nature  of  that  proposed  mis- 
sion that  she  came  down  dutifully  to  Old  Square  that  fine  after- 
noon to  consult  her  uncle.  This  was  nice  of  her  ;  for,  believe  me, 
the  higher  education  has  not  wholly  succeeded  in  onsexing  a 


[limil  '■»"  'iW'W^'y), 


WfWI 


^p^p^^p 


la 


TBI  henti  of  ibkii. 


ft" 


woman  if  ihe  still  pretends,  in  the  decorous  old  fashion,  to  paj 
a  certain  amount  of  ostensible  exttirnul  deference  to  the  opinions 
and  experience  of  her  male  relations. 

The  eminent  Q.C.  looked  up  in  surprise  from  his  ••  devil's  " 
short  notes  on  a  fresh  brief,  which  he  was  just  that  moment 
engaged  in  skimming.  It  was  a  slack  afternoon  in  Old  Square, 
as  it  hapjiened,  and,  by  a  sort  of  minor  miracle  or  special  pro- 
vidence, Uncle  Tom  had  really  half  an  hour  to  spare  upon  his 
pretty  and  now  distinguished  niece  ;  but,  even  had  it  been  other- 
wise, some  client's  case  would  surely  have  fared  but  scurvily  at 
his  hands  at  such  a  moment;  for  Uncle  Tom  was  fond  and 
proud  of  Iris,  in  spite  of  her  heresies,  and  would  have  neglected 
Colpfidge,  C.J.,  himself  to  attend  to  her  slightest  whim  or 
fa 

"  v^od  bless  my  soul,  my  dear,"  he  exclaimed,  in  surprise, 
rising  up  from  his  desk,  and  pushing  his  niece  with  a  hearty  kiss 
and  a  vigorous  shove  into  the  one  arm-chair  (so  dusty  in  the 
back  that  Ins,  being  still,  though  Third  Classic,  a  woman  for  all 
that,  trembled  inwardly  in  silence  for  her  nice  new  best  afternoon 
frock),  *•  what  on  earth  brings  a  learned  lady  like  you  down  to 
Lmco.n's  Inn  at  this  time  of  day,  eh  ?  " 

"  Well.  uiK-le,"  Ins  answered,  with  modest  eyes,  "to  tell  you 
Llie  truth,  11  I  may  venture  to  bother  you,  I've  come  down  to  ask 
your  advice  this  afternoon  about  a  private  matter  that  greatly 
fonc  Ilia  me." 

Thr  old  barrister  rubbed  his  fat  hands  together  with  a  distinct 

u'nw    of    mward   satisfaction.     "That's   right,   my   dear,"   he 

i:-w<r'  1    warmly.     "That's  the   right   spirit.     The   good  old 

J  111  glad  to  see  it,  Iris  ;  I'm  very  glad  to  see  it.     I  was 

\<»n  d  be  too  puli'ed  up  now  even  to  look  at  me  in  the  light 

.)i  '  ■•  adviser." 

iris    glanced    down,  demureh    und   smiled.     "Uncle   dear," 

she  said,  with  w'^anly  softness,  "I  hope  I  shall  never  be  too 

pulled  up  to  consult  you  about  /;.Dything  and  everything  on  earth 

that   concerns  me.     Since  dear  papa  died,  I  feel   that  you've 

'^^      '  Ift'fin  as  good  as  a  father  to  me.     You  know  that  as  well 

'     iiiily  you  like  to  make  me  tell  you  again.     But  are  you 

<■•    you  dfar,  that  I'm  not  interrupting  you  ?  " 

d  mail  s  eyes  had  a  gentle  glisten  in  them  as  he  took  his 

u.Hf.'s    hand    in    his,   tenderly.     "Iris,"    he   answered, 

-     u  it  with  old-fashioned  chivalry  to  his  pursed-up  hps  (for 

(ill  diHJ  fat  as  he  was,  the  eminent  Q.C.  was  an  old  gentleman 
9I  inuch  unsuspected  sentiment),  "  you  never  interrupt  me,  and 


J,J,J|;V»ill.lMl^i|^7JJ^ 


TBI   TBNT8   Of 


yoa  never  ihall.  My  most  litigious  olient  muflt  wait  year  plea- 
sure. I'm  always  glad  at  any  time  to  see  you  here  or  elnewhore. 
My  dear,  I,  who  never  had  a  daughter  of  my  own,  love  you  as 
ck'iirly  as  if  you  were  my  own  daughter.  I'm  only  too  glad  to 
lie  of'any  help  to  you.  I  don't  think  I  shall  come  down  here 
much  longer,  Iris.  The  fact  is,  Im  getting  tired  of  th»<  Bar — 
its  duiness  and  its  hol'owncss.  My  boys  are  well-enough  pro- 
vided for  now,  and  I  shall  never  be  a  judge — I've  been  far  too 
honest  for  that — done  no  dirty  work  for  either  party.  So  thore's 
nothing  to  keep  me  with  my  nose  at  the  grindstone  here  much 
longer.  I've  feathered  my  nest  in  spite  of  'em,  and  I  shall  soun 
retire ;  and  then  I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  in  life  but  to  po.su  as 
your  guardian,  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend,  Miss  Third 
Classic,"  And  he  eyed  her  admiringly.  It  was  very  wrong,  but 
he  liked  his  pretty  niece  all  the  better  for  having  achieved  those 
academical  honours  which  he,  nevertheless,  felt  bound  to 
deprecate. 

Iris's  eyes  fell  down  once  more.  '  You're  too  good,  uncle — 
and  you're  a  darling,"  she  answered.  "  Well,  what  I  wanted  to 
consult  you  about  to-day  is  just  this.     Now  that  I've  finished  mj 

I'ducation " 

Uncle  Tom  shook  his  head  in  vigorous  dissent.  •'  Bad  phrase, 
my  dear,"  he  said,  "  bad  phrase,  very.  Too  youthful  altogether, 
Betray's  mexperience.  Nobody  ever  finished  his  education  yet. 
Mine  goes  on  still.  It's  in  progress  daily.  Each  ni*w  case 
teaches  me  something.  And  the  judges  teach  me,  if  nothing 
else,  cuutempt  of  Court  daily." 

Iris  accepted  the  correction  in  good  part.  •'  Well,  then,"  she 
went   on   with  a    pretty  smile,  "now  that  I've  completed  my 

University  course " 

"  Much  better,"  the  old  man  muttered,  "much  bettor;  much 
better.     Though  not  feminine." 

"  1  want  to  begin  some  work  in  life — somothiii;.'  tliat  will  do 

^'ood  in  some  way  to  others — something  that  will  make  me  feel 

I'm  being  of  use  to  the  world  in  my  generation." 
Uncle  Tom  sniffed  high.     *•  In  short,"  he  said  with  a  pitying 

-;inile,  "  a  Mission." 

Ins  rtmiled   in  return,  in  spite  of  herself.     "  Well,  yes,"  she 

jiumuin-d   good-humouredly,  "  if  you  chouse  to  put  it  so,  just 

iiai     tt  Mis.sion." 
Uncle  Tom  rose  and  went  over  without  a  word  to  a  gmall  tin 

'OX  on  a  shelf  opposite,  conspicuously   labelled  in    large  white 

letters,  "  Estate  of  the  late  Hev.  HeginuUl  Kuyveti."     From  the 


^mimf^mir 


44 


tSB   TBNT8   Of   •HXll, 


boi  he  l(X)k  out  ft  few  papers  and  parcliments,  and  from  among 
tliem  he  soon  aelected  one,  tied  round  with  a  neat  little  tag  of 
red  tape,  and  niaria'd  on  tiie  back  in  a  round  legal  hand, 
••  Descendants  of  the  late  Rear-Admiral  William  Clarence  Kny- 
vett,  O.B."  He  handed  this  formidable  document  over  with  a 
little  silent  bow  to  Iris,  and  seating  himself  then  athia  own  desk, 
proceeded  with  uplifted  pen  to  address  her,  as  jury  on  the 
question  at  issue. 

••  My  dear,"  he  said,  in  so  forensic  a  tone,  that  Iris  half 
expected  "  My  Lud,  I  mean,"  to  follow,  *'  you  must  remember 
that  you  have  already  a  mission  cut  out  for  you,  and  a  mission 
for  which  it  is  your  bounden  duty  as  a  citizen  and  a  Christian 
most  strenuously  to  prepare  yourself.  I  know,  of  course,  the 
sf.ri  of  thnig  you  had  in  your  head.  Come  now,"  and  he 
assumed  his  croaa-examiring  tone,  with  a  dig  of  his  quill  in  the 
direction  of  the  unwilling  witness ;  '•  confess,  you  were  thinking 
of  being  a  nurse  in  a  hospital." 

Ins  blushed  a  guilty  acquiescence.  "  Well,  either  that,"  she 
answered  grudgingly,  **  or  a  tutorship  or  lectureship  at  some  ladies' 
college." 

"  Precisely  so,"  Uncle  Tom  responded,  with  ^  crushing 
triumph.  "  I  knew  as  much.  I  was  morally  certain  of  it.  It's 
always  so.  Young  women  in  search  of  a  mission  now-a-days 
have  two  ideas,  and  two  ideas  only — nursing  or  teaching.  They 
want  to  turn  the  world  into  one  vast  hospital  or  one  vast  board- 
ing-school. They'd  like  us  all  to  break  our  legs  or  go  into  the 
Fourth  Form  again,  that  they  might  exercise  their  vocation 
by  bandaging  us  up  with  ambulance  shreds,  and  list,  or  giving  us 
lectures  at  great  length  in  political  economy.  Now  the  fact  is. 
Iris,  that's  all  very  well  for  plain  young  women  of  limited  means, 
whom  nobody's  ever  likely  to  think  of  marrying.  Let  them  exer- 
cise their  vocation  by  all  means,  if  they  like  it,  provided  always 
they  don't  always  expect  me  to  break  my  leg  to  please  them,  or 
listen   to   their   lectures  on   political  economy.     1  draw  a  line 

there;  no  Mill  or  Ricardo But  you,  my  dear,  will 

have  a  great  fortune.  Somebody  worthy  of  you  will  some  day 
marry  you — if  anybody  worthy  of  you  exists  anywhere.  Now,  to 
dispense  that  great  fortune  aright,  to  use  it  for  the  best  good  ol 
humanity,  you  ought  to  be  otherwise  engaged  than  in  bandaging, 
I  think.  Your  main  work  in  life  will  be,  not  to  bandage,  but  to 
fulfil  the  part  of  a  good  wife  and  a  good  mother.  I  may  be  old- 
''ashioncd  in  thinking  thus,  perhaps.  I  may  even  be  indelicate, 
■ince  womeii  uow-a-days  are  too  delicate  to  face  the  facts  of  life — 


;  kit- 

m 


K* 


lliX   TENTS   OF    8U£U. 


46 


but,  at  any  rate,  I'm  practical.  These  views  are  not  the  views  in 
vogue  at  Girton,  I'm  aware,  but  they're  common  sense — they're 
common  sense  for  all  that.  The  species  won't  die  out  because 
you've  got  the  higher  education.  What  then  ?  You  ought  to 
be  trying  to  prepare  yourself  for  your  duties  in  life — the  duties 
in  life  that  will  naturally  devolve  upon  you  as  the  mistress,  dis- 
penser, and  transmitter  of  a  Great  Property."  The  last  two 
words  Uncle  Tom  pronounced  with  peculiar  unction,  for  pro- 
perty in  his  eyes  was  something  almost  sacred  in  its  profound 
impoii/ance. 

••  But  how  do  I  know,"  Iris  objected  faintly,  '♦  tliat  Uncle 
Arthur  will  leave  his  money  to  me  at  all  ?  Let  alone- the  odious 
idea  of  waiting  and  watching  till  you  come  into  somebody  else's 
fortune." 

••  How  do  you  know  ?  "  Uncle  Tom  repeated,  with  a  sudden 
explosion  of  virtuous  indignation.  "  Just  look  at  that  paper  you 
i'old  in  your  hand,  and  I'll  explain  the  whole  thing  to  you,  as 
clear  as  mud,  in  half-a-second.  He'd  hardly  dare  to  leave  it 
otherwise,  I  tell  you,  with  me  against  him.  I'd  hke  to  see  him 
try,  that's  all.  Iris.  Just  cast  your  eye  on  the  paper  ir  your 
hand,  and  recollect  that  your  grandfather,  the  Admiral — like  a 
green  bay-tree — had  five  sons — his  quiver  full  of  them.  Five 
sons.  Alexander,  the  Squire,  never  married ;  Clarence,  the 
scapegrace — the  less  said  about  Clarence  the  better  ;  Sir  Arthur, 
the  General,  whose  wife  pre-deceased  him ;  Reginald,  the  par- 
son, your  father,  my  dear,  and  a  better  man  never  breathed, 
though  he  married  my  sister ;  and,  lastly,  Churles,  that  rascally 
lawyer,  who  has  issue  your  cousin  Harold.  Well,  your  grand- 
father was  ill-advised  enough,  though  not  a  lawyer  to  draw  up 
his  own  will  hini':  ;lf — a  thing  oven  I  would  hardly  venture  to  do, 
with  all  my  knowialge  ;  '  but  fouls  rush  in,'  &c.,,  &c.  As  always 
happens  in  such  cases,  he  drew  it  up  badly,  very  badly — the 
Nemesis  of  the  amateur — used  technical  terms  he  didn't  under- 
sfcand,  and  omitted  to  explain  his  intentions  clearly.  Now  he 
left  the  propert;^  in  the  first  instance,  for  life  only,  to  your  uncle 
Alexander,  the  eldest  son,  as  you  see  by  that  paper — but  you're 
not  looking  at  it.  Alexander,  you  observe,  ie  there  set  down  as 
d.  s.  p. — decessit  sine  prole — which  I  need  hardly  say  to  a  Third 
Classic  means  that  he  died  without  lawful  issue." 

"  I  see,"  Iris  answered,  endeavoring  to  assume  an  interested 
expression,  for  the  technicalities  of  t]it.  la^v  failed  to  arouse  in 
her  the  same  enthusiasm  as  in  the  eminent  authority  on  probate 
and  divorce  cases.  ' 


•>: 


46 


THX   TINTS   Of    WBMM. 


' 


**  Well,  by  the  terms  of  the  will  in  that  case  made  and  pro 
vided,"  Uncle  Tom  went  on,  with  demonstrative  forefinger, 
the  property  was  next  to  go  for  life  to  your  Uncle  Clarence,  pro- 
vided he  outlived  your  Uncle  Alexantljr.  Clarence,  who  was  to 
have  power  of  appointment  if  he  died  with  issue,  was,  as  you  will 
remember,  an  oflficer  of  hussars,  and,  not  to  put  too  tine  a  point 
upon  it,  he  disappeared  under  a  cloud,  getting  killed  abroad  in 
the  French  service,  in  whkjh  he  had  enlisted,  before,  nnu'k  you, 
before  the  death  of  your  Uncle  Alexander,  who  deceased  at  Bath, 
on  April  the  4th,  1883,  without  lawful  issue.  So  tliat,  so  far  as 
this  present  question  is  concerned,  we  may  safely  leave  Clarence 
out  of  consideration.  Mortuus  est  sine  prate — he  died  without 
lawful  issue  of  his  body  begotten,  killed  in  action  in  foreign 
parts,  on  or  about  the  20th  of  June,  anno  domini,  1868,  and  has 
no  further  interest  in  this  present  inquiry." 

"  I  see."  Iris  once  more  made  answer,  dutifully  stifling  a  ya-.;'n. 

••Well,  then,  and  in  that  case,"  Uncle  Tom  went  on,  witU  j 
forensic  quill  pointed  firmly  towards  her,  '•  the  proi)erty  was  to 
devolve  on  the  third  brother,  your  uncle  Arthur — yon  see  him 
down  there,  Major-General  Sir  Arthur  Wellesley  Knyvett,  K.C.B. 
— no  doubt  as  your  grandfather  fondly  expected  on  the  same 
terms  as  his  elder  brothers.  And  Sir  Arthur,  in  fact,  as  you  well 
know,  is  now  and  at  present  the  actual  holder.  But  then, 
and  this  is  hujIUy  important,  your  grandfather  omitted,  in 
Arthur's  case,  to  insvsrt  the  limiting  clause  he  had  elsewhere 
used  for  his  other  children,  and  left,  by  implication,  your  uncle 
Arthur  (purely  by  accident,  I  don't  for  a  moment  doubt)  full 
power  to  beq'ueath  it  to  whomsoever  he  chose,  whether  he  had 
issue  hving  or  otherwise.  And  that  power,"  Uncle  Tom  con- 
tinued, with  a  vicious  snap  of  the  jaw,  ••  your  Uncle  Arthur  now 
and  always  lays  claim  to  exercise." 

"  Then  how  am  I  to  know,"  Iris  asked  with  a  shudder,  scarcely 
overcoming  her  natural  objection  to  ask  such  a  question,  ••  that 
Uncle  Arthur  means  to  exercise  in  my  favour  ?  " 

*•  Because,"  Uncle  Tom  answered,  with  a  wise  air  of  exclusive 
knowledge,  •'  I  have  let  him  kiiow  privately,  through  a  safe 
medium,  that  he  daren't  do  otherwise.  The  terms  of  the  will, 
in  the  latter  part,  are  so  vague  and  contradictory  tli;it  nobody 
but  I  can  understand  them,  and  I  can  make  that  mean  anything 
I  like,  or  everything,  or  nothing.  Your  grandfather  then  goes 
on  to  provide,  after  allowing  your  Uncle  Arthur  to  do  as  he  will — 
so  far  as  I  can  read  his  ungrammatical  sentences— that  in  case 
your  Uncle  Arthur  dies  without  issue,  the  money  shall  ^:o  to  the 
fourth  son,  the  Rev.  Reginald  Knyvett,  decease  1,  wii)   married 


\  '■ 


THS   TKNTI   or    ■■BM. 


47 


mj  sister,  Ainelia  Whitroarsh  ;  or,  in  case  of  his  prt-decoMe,  to 
his  lawful  issue,  who.  as  ^-ou  will  see  from  the  paper  hefore  you, 
and  are  indeed  perhaps  already  aware,  is  Iris  Enyyetl,  of  Qirton 
College,  Cambridge,  spinster,  here  present." 

"  1  suspected  as  much  already,"  Iris  answered,  imiling. 
"  Last  of  all  on  that  paper,  you  will  observe,"  Uncle  Tom 
remarked,  growing  suddenly  severe  and  red  in  face,  as  was  his 
wont  in  dealing  with  a  specially  awkward  and  damaging  witness, 
"  comes  the  name  of  the,  fifth  and  youngest  son,  that  rascally 
lawyer,  Charles  Wilberforce  Knyvett.  Now,  your  late  uncle, 
Charles  Wilberforce  Knyvett,  for  some  unknown  reason,  was 
never  in  any  way  a  favourite  with  his  father.  In  fact,  the 
Admiral  profoundly  disliked  him.  People  say  the  old  gentleman 
in  his  latter  days  thought  his  youngest  son  a  sneak  and  a  cui 
(which  was  unhappily  true),  and  harboured  a  peculiar  grudgt 
against  him.  At  any  rate,  he  is  conspicuously  omitted  from  any 
benefit  under  the  will,  or  rather,  it  is  provided  in  so  many  words 
that  after  all  these  lives  have  run  out,  the  property  shall  not 
descend  to  Charles  Wilberforce  Knyvett,  his  heirs,  executors,  or 
assigns,  but  shall  be  diverted  to  another  branch  of  the  family,  to 
the  total  exclusion  of  your  Uncle  Charles  and  his  sole  issue, 
your  Cousin  Harold." 

"Then  Uncle  Arthur  couldn't  leave  the  property  to  Harold, 
even  if  he  wanted  to  ?  "  Iris  asked,  somewhat  languidly,  but 
with  a  resolute  desire,  since  her  uncle  wished  it,  to  master  the 
intricacies  of  this  difficult  problem  in  the  law  of  inheritance. 

"  He  says  he  can,  but  /  say  he  can't,"  Uncle  Tom  answered, 
with  a  glow  of  righteous  triumph.  ••  I've  tried  the  will  by  all 
the  precedents,  and  all  I've  got  to  say  is  this — I'd  just  like  to 
see  him  try  it."  And  Uncle  Tom  unconsciously  assumed  the 
attitude  of  defence  familiar  to  the  patrons  of  the  British  prize  ring. 
**  That's  a  pity,"  Iris  answered,  looking  him  straight  in  the 
face ;  *'  and  it  seems  somehow  awfully  unfair ;  for  Uncle 
Arthur's  so  fond  of  Harold,  yon  know ;  and  he's  never  seen  ms 
since  I  was  a  baby  in  swaddling-clothes." 

Uncle  Tom  laid  down  his  glasses  on  his  desk  with  a  bounce 
*  Cod  bless  my  soul,"  he  cried,  in  a  paroxysm  of  astonishment. 
'  I«  the  girl  crurked  ?  Has  much  learning  made  her  mad  at 
(lirtun  ?  Going  to  play  into  your  enemy's  hand,  eh,  and  chuck 
ip  u  furtiiMe  of  SIX  thousand  a  year  ;  all  for  the  sake  of  a  piece 
if  sentiment  !  No,  no.  thank  heaven,  I  know  the  law  ;  and  not 
t  siMi^h  [)enny  of  the  Admiral's  property  shall  that  scoundrel 
liaiold  ever  touch  or  handle.  Not  a  doit,  not  a  cent,  not  a  sou 
,,.(  ■,  -rivpr       Hh  won't,  and  Ije  shan't,  so  that's  all  about  it  I  " 


48 


IBS   TBNTB  OV  IHUI. 


CHAPTER  Vn. 


▲BT    kND    NATURB. 


&-; 


•^  v'Tj  few  days  Eustace  Le  Marchant  and  Venion  Rlftkf 
.1  ;,.i'd  down  comfortably  to  their  respective  pursuits  on  tin/ 
wiiid-' \>opt  summit  of  the  mountain  of  the  Beni-Merzoug,  Tli^j 
simple-hearted  /'iSyles,  as  soon  as  they  were  quite  convincwl 
that  the  new-corn  '■  ^e  neither  French  spies  nor  agricultural 
pioneers  sent  out  to  ^ad  the  concomitant  blessings  of  civiliHa- 
tion  and  confiscation  oi  land,  welcomed  the  young  Englislmifji, 
with  most  cordial  hospitality  to  their  lonely  hill -tops,  Theii 
courtesy,  in  fact,  seemed  likely  at  first  to  prove,  if  anything,  i 
tv'Ale  too  pressing ;  for  almost  every  family  in  the  village  insistec 
on  sending  a  cous-cous  in  turn,  in  polite  recognition  of  the  new 
visitors.  Now,  Meriem's  coim-cous,  much  to  the  Englishirum't 
int^enuous  surprise,  prepared  as  it  was  by  those  dainty  and  dextur- 
uu^  fingers,  had  turned  out  upon  tasting  a  triumphant  success  , 
but  the  cous-com  which  succeeded  it,  and  all  of  which  politeiiusi. 
compelled  the  inhabitants  of  the  camp  to  devour  in  public  to  tlu 
utmost  morsel  before  the  entertainers'  eyes,  were  far  from  attiiin' 
ing  the  same  high  level  of  primitive  cookery.  Deft  fingers  count 
for  much  even  in  the  smallest  matters.  Meriem  herscilf,  indeed 
was  of  infinite  use  to  them  in  arranging  supplies  ;  and  her  undo 
the  Headman,  with  his  friends  the  Marabouts,  gave  them  ever} 
facility  for  shooting  and  sketching,  and  hunting  specJnuMu 
throughout  the  whole  country-side  for  miles  in  either  directio;). 
.  On  the  first  morning  after  their  arrival  in  the  hills,  ljluk(- 
strolled  out  by  himself,  with  sketch-book  in  hand,  for  a  wall, 
through  the  village,  while  Le  Marchant  was  busy  unpacking  anu 
arranging  his  bird-stufiing  and  beetle-preserving  apparatus.  To 
Vernon  Blake  the  village  was  indeed  a  fresh  world  of  untoU* 
enjoyment.  The  rough-built  houses  with  their  big  stone  walKi 
and  tile-covered  roofs  ;  the  broad  eaves  projecting  over  the  open 
court-yard,  and  supported  by  rude  wood  Ionic  columns  ;  the  tali 
lithe  men  with  their  simple  but  picturesque  and  efi'ective  garb, 
their  bronzed  features,  and  their  long  oval  faces  ;  the  women  aj 
the  fouutaiu  with  water  jars  on  their'heads,  walking  Btat«ly  aud 


mfmmm^T'^r'^^ 


tEM    TSMTS   OF    BHKU. 


«f 


•rool,  with  exquisite  bu^ts  and  rounded  limbs,  jnst  peeping 
through  the  gi*aceful  folds  of  tlieir  hangijig  chiton — each  and  all 
of  these  suggested  to  his  soul  endless  subjects  for  innumerable 
pictures,  where  girls  of  this  exquisite  Italian  type  might  form 
the  figures  in  the  foreground,  exactly  suited  to  his  eyinpathetio 
pencil.  He  had  come  to  the  very  right  place  for  his  art.  Modeli 
crowded  upon  him  spontaneously  at  every  corner. 

A  turn  of  the  road  near  the  Headman's  cottage  brought  him 
suddenly,  with  a  start,  face  to  face  with  Meriem  herself,- engaged 
on  a  little  flat  platform  with  a  group  of  Kabyle  girls  of  her  own 
age  in  moulding  coarse  vases  of  hand-made  pottery.  Blake,  with 
his  soft-soled  white-linen  shoes,  came  upon  them  so  noiselessly 
and  unexpectedly  that  for  half-a-minute  the  giris  themselves, 
intent  upon  their  work,  never  so  much  as  perceived  the  presence 
of  a  stranger.  The  artist,  drawing-back,  for  fear  he  might  dig- , 
turb  them,  drank  in  the  whole  group  with  unspoken  delight. 
He  paused  on  the  path  a  little  above  where  they  stood,  and 
looked  down,  all  interest,  upon  that  unstudied  picture.  The 
graceful  Kabyle  maidens  in  their  simple  loose  dress,  with  feet 
bare  to  the  ankle,  were  stooping  picturesquely  over  the  jars  they 
were  moulding,  in  unconscious  attitudes  of  grace  and  beauty. 
Some  of  them  were  bii re-headed,  others  wore  on  their  hair  a  sort 
of  pointed  fez,  oV  Phrygian  kaftan,  which  half  confined,  half  let 
loose  to  the  wind,  their  raven-black  locks.  The  jars,  in  shape 
like  an  old  Roman  amphora,  were  poised  upon  the  ground  by 
means  of  a  little  round  mud  base  ;  the  naive  young  potters, 
each  full  of  her  own  task,  and  unmindful  of  the  others,  built  up 
the  big  vessels  stage  after  stage  by  adding  on  loose  handfuls  of 
moist  and  flattened  clay  to  the  half-finished  outline.  They  were 
evidently  ignorant  of  the  use  of  the  wheel — so  remote  and 
uiisophjsticuited  are  these  wild  mountain-people — yet  the  shapes 
which  grew  slowly  under  their  moulding  fingers  were  each 
almost  perfect  of  their  own  simple  kind,  and  bore  each  the  dis- 
iinct  and  ujimistakable  impress  of  an  individual  fancy.  It  was 
pretty  to  ses  them  stooping,  thus  unconscious,  over  the  wet  vases 
of  yellow  clay,  witli  'one  hand  inside  supporting  and  modelling 
the  fresJjIy-added  portion,  while  the  other  without  was  eirsployed 
in  smoothing  it,  and  shaping  the  whole,  by  dexterous  side-pres- 
sure, to  the  required  roundness. 

Blake  would  have  pulled  out  his  pencil  on  the  spot,  and 
dketched  thorn  roughly  in  their  attitudes  all  unwitting  as  they 
Ktood,  had  not  one  little  fair-haired  and  blue-eyed  maiden,  of 
^hat  almost  Scaudioaviaa  type  so  common  here  and  ik%t%  ixK 


mm 


'fo 


TBI   TENTS  or   Sfflll. 


aabyle  villages,  looked  laughingly  up  from  her  two-handled  lat. 
and  caught  his  eye  on  a  sudden  with  a  frig-htened  httle  scream 
of  shyness  and  astonishment.  An  infidel  was  standing  there 
gazing  upon  them  unseen.  "  A  stranger  I  A  stranger  I  "  At 
the  sound,  all  the  others  started  up  in  concert,  and  in  a  moment 
all  was  giggling  and  blushing  confusion.  So  strange  a  visitor 
never  before  had  disturbed  their  peace.  Some  of  the  girls  held 
their  hands  to  their  faces  lilft  wayward  children  to  hide  their 
blushes  ;  ethers  fell  back  a  pace  or  two  in  startled  haste  under 
th«  overhanging  eaves  of  the  Headman's  cottage.  Who  could 
■ay  what  designs  the  infidel  might  harbour  ?  Meriem  alone 
raised  herself  erect,  and  gazed  the  painter  fairly  in  the  face  with 
th«  irank  self-possession  of  a  European  lady. 

Blake  lifted  his  hat  as  instinctively  as  before,  for  he  felt  her 
presence ;  and  Meriem,  in  reply,  raised  her  hand  with  a  wave, 
to  the  level  of  her  face  with  a  easy  and  graceful  natural  saluta- 
tion. 

"  Good  morning,  mademoiselle,"  the  artist  said,  gaily,  in  high 
spirits  at  the  SC'  ne  and  its  pictorial  capabilities. 

"  Good  morning,  friend,"  Meriem  answered  quickly,  a  slight 
shade  pa^^sing  as  she  spoke,  over  her  open  countenance.  ••  But 
but  why  do  you  call  me  mademoiselle,  if  you  please  ?  I'm  not  a 
Frenchwoman  as  you  seem  to  think  me." 

Blake  saw  she  was  evidently  annoyed  by  the  politely-meant 
title. 

"  I  called  you  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  apologetically,  **  because 
I  wanted  to  call  you  something,  and  as  I  suppose  you're  a  French 
citizen,  I  didn't  know  what  else  on  earth  to  call  you." 

•'  Why  not  call  me  by  my  name,  as  every  one  else  does  7  "  tlic 
beautiful  barbarian  answered,  simply.  **  I'm  just  Meriem  to  all 
the  village." 

Blake  was  a  little  taken  aback  at  the  startling  proposal.  So 
much  familiarity  fairly  took  his  breath  away.  This  was  indeeii 
to  rush  in  medias  res,  with  undue  precipitancy, 

"  Am  I  to  say  Meriem,  then  ?  "  he  inquired  rather  low,  witl 
natural  bashfulness. 

"  Wha?  else  should  you  say?"  Meriem  answered,  naively. 
"  Don't  people  call  one  another  by  their  names  everyw  here  ?  " 

**  Why,  yes,"   Blake   answered,   with   some  little   hesitation. 
"but  not  by  their  Christian  names,  you  know — at  least,  in  [-'ai^ 
land — except  as  a  mark  of  special  favour  and  close  intimacy  " 

"  Meriem  is  not  a  Christian  name,"  the  girl  anawered  ha.stilv 
itlmost  indignantly,  "  and  1  lu  uot  a  CLndtiuu  ,  1  tu  »  UMi 
belitTcr." 


TBS   n«n  Of   IBBM. 


•1 


witl 


'  But  your  father  was  a  Christian,"  Blake  ventured  to  repi?, 
Aonished  at  the  unwonted  tone  of  her  disclaimer,  "  and  you  told 
k.s  yesterday  your  English  name  at  least  was  Mary." 

"My  father  was  no  Christian!"  Meriera  cried  aloud,  with 
(lashing  eyes  and  fiery  indignation.  "  People  in  the  village 
accused  him  of  that  sometimes,  I  know,  but  it  was  never  true  ; 
I'm  sure  it  was  never  true,  for  Yusuf  was  kinder  and  better  than 
any  one — no  infidel  could  ever  be  as  kind  as  that.  He  was  a  good 
Moslem,  and  he  read  the  Koran  and  prayed  at  the  tombs,  and 
went  to  moyque  like  the  reat  on  Fridays  regularly.  He  was  a 
a'ue  man,  and  every  one  loved  him.  No  one  shall  sfty  a  word 
<)efore  me  against  my  father.  As  to  my  name,  why  Mary  and 
Meriem's  all  the  same,  of  course  ;  and  I  was  called,  so  the 
women  in  the  village  say,  after  the  name  of  the  mother  of  Aissa- 
ben- Menem.  But  Moslems,  too,  honour  him  as  a  very  great 
prophet,  you  know,  though  not  so  great,  naturally,  aa  our  own 
Prophet  Mahomnied." 

Blake  hardly  understood  her  meaning  to  the  full,  for  his 
acquaintance  with  her  creed  was  strictly  confined  to  "  The 
Arabian  Nights  "  and  ••  The  Revolt  of  Islam  ;  "  but  it  gave  him 
I  little  shuck  of  surprise  and  horrpr  to  hear  any  one,  and  espe- 
ually  a  woman,  so  indignantly'rfgertj'ie'';ipi)iu;tat.i9n  of  Christian- 
ity. Yet  a  moment'8,.»'eilticlAoi^  fiferv-ed'SO  di.u)w  hW.'^iiough  by  no 
means  »  philo8ophicai\\->ninded  pV.  ccjymop6lifcan»'y*^^iig  man, 
that  in  such  surroundings  nnthinglf^fep '.would  have"  been  natural, 

"  Qhristians 
r-A^etesta- 
'(Ity't^ven'o'cijUfred  i'o'her  sikiple  mind 
that  \^^:-^  hearer  hiiuHelf,  infidel  as  he  was,  could  think  seriously 
vvyll  ol  them,  or  regard  tliem  as  the  equals  of  true  believers. 

He  turned  the  conversation,  accordingly,  of  set  purpose. 
"  You  all  looked  so  pretty,"  he  said,  •*  as  I  came  along  the  path, 
bending  over  your  jars  and  modelling  }our  pottery,  that  I  was 
longing  in  my  heart  to  stand  still  and  study  you.  I  wanted  to 
iketch  you  all  just  as  you  stood  there." 

••  To  triiiit  '  "  Meriem  cried,  with  a  little  start  of  dismay ;  an 
unknown  word  encloHen  for  a  woman  such  infinite  possibilities. 

"To  skt'ifh  you,  you  know,"  Blake  repeated,  reassuringly. 
•  To  put  sou  in  my  book  like  this,  you  see.  To  make  a  little 
puliire  of  >()U." 

Meriem  lau;^hed,  a  sweet,  frank  laugh,  as  she  turned  the  pages 
of  his  book  with  wondering  eyes.  "That  would  be  nice,"  she 
said.    **  They'ro  pretty  things,  these.     But  would  it  be  right,  I 


T^ 


61 


TBB    TKNT8   OF   BHXM. 


wonder  ?    AH  good  Moslems  are  forbidden,  you  know,  hy  th* 
Prophet's  law,  to  make  a  picture  or  image  of  anything  in  heavt  n 
or  earth  or  the  water  under  them.     There  are  no  pictures  any 
where  in  any  of  the  mosques.     Would  the  Marabouts  think  ii 
was  right  for  us  to  be  painted  ?  " 

•'  But  I'm  not  a  Moslem,  you  see,"  Blake  replied,  smiling. 
with  ready  professional  casuistry.  "  And  all  you've  got  to  do 
yourselves,  you  know,  is  just  to  stand  leaning  as  you  were  over 
your  pottery,  and  allow  me  to  commit  the  sin  of  sketching  you 
on  my  own  account.  It  won't  hurt  me  :  I'm  a  hardened  otrender. 
Ask  the  other  girls,  there's  a  good  soul,  whether  they'll  come 
back  as  they  were  and  let  me  sketch  them." 

••And  are  the  other  girls  to  be  put  in  the  picture,  too?" 
Meriem  asked,  looking  up,  with  a  faint  undertone  of  disappro- 
bation. 

••  Certainly,"  Blake  replied,  without  perceiving  the  slight 
inflection  of  disappointment  in  her  voice.  "  Now  go,  there's  a 
good  girl,  and  make  them  come  back  and  stand  nicely  as  I  tell 
them." 

'•  My  father  used  to  say  that,  •  Now  go,  there's  a  good  girl,'  " 
Meriem  answered,  with .  a^  faint  rising  flush  of  pleasure  ;  and 
pleased  at  the.word^,  Bhe  Svent  66'  A.!,  ooce  to  do  as  he  directed  her. 
He  had  8ti,rbed'a)ri'/5ld'6"bbVd  |n  (ler.sinjiile  .nature. 

In  half-a'-I(itoE\in  minCites  l31^,ke  had  gottwo  sitters,  with  a  little 
coaxing  ancf  manual  posing;  which  they  seerned  ,to  resent  far  less 
than  Europ,ea|i,  girl:8;!<rotiid! have,  done  ^ijiKlei  tbe  circumstances, 
into  tolerabWoi'der'.of '  his  proppse'<i  ,^tud'y.. ,  At-first,  to  be  sure, 
he  had  on  little  Hiffiicuity  in  getting  them  to  keep  for  five  seconds 
together  to  one  posture  or  attitude.  They  seemed  to  think  it  a 
matter  of  supreme  indifference  whether  a  face  begun  at  one  angle 
should  be  continued  at  the  same  or  a  totally  unlike  one.  But 
with  some  small  trouble,  by  Meriem's  aid,  and  with  the  magni- 
ficent promise  of  untold  wealth  in  the  shape  of  a  silver  half-franc, 
a  piece  visibly  dangled  before  their  antonished  eyes,  he  succeeded 
at  last  in  inducing  each  girl  to  maintain  something  like  a  con- 
sistent attitude,  at  least  while  he  was  engaged  upon  his  first 
rough  sketch  of  her  own  particular  face  and  figure.  The  guileless 
damsels,  dazzeled  at  the  prospect  of  such  unexpected  wealth, 
would  have  sat  there  all  day  as  still  as  mice  for  so  magnificent  a 
payment ;  but  at  the  end  of  an  hour  or  two,  Blake  dismissed 
them  all  with  mutual  satisfaction  tc  their  various  homes,  and  pre- 
pared himself  to  return  in  excellent  spirits  to  the  tent  with  hu 
priM  for  luncheon.    *•  That  ought  to  fetch  them,"  he  murmured 


THB   TKNTB   OF   ■HKM. 


98 


9  " 


to  himseVf,  as  he  surveyed  his  own  dainty  and  tmaffected  sketch 
with  parental  partiality.  '•  Now,  Meriem,  you've  done  more  for  * 
me  to-day  than  all  the  rest  of  them  put  together.  You  must 
have  a  whole  franc  yourself  for  your  share  of  the  proceedings." 
And  he  held  that  vast  store  of  potential  enjoyment,  proffered  in 
a  shining  coin,  between  his  delicate  thumb  and  opposing  fore- 
finger. 

Meriem  had  never  possessed  so  much  money  in  her  life  before  ; 
but  she  drew  her  hand  back  from  him  with  a  startled  gesture,  and 
held  it  like  a  child  behind  her  back  with  an  unsophisticated 
expression  of  offended  dignity.  '•  Oh,  no,"  she  answered,  blush- 
ing crimson  to  the  neck  ;  *'  I  could  never  take  that.  Please  don't 
ask  me  again.  I'm  glad  I  was  able  to  help  you  with  your  pic- 
ture.    Though  of  course  it  was  wrong  for  us  tc  let  you  draw  us." 

Blake  saw  at  a  glance  that  she  really  meant  it,  and  with  the 
innate  courtesy  of  a  gentleman  refrained  at  once  from  pressing 
the  obnoxious  coin  any  further  upon  the  girl's  unwilling  notice. 
He  replaced  the  franc  quietly  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  said 
as  he  did  so  in  an  unconcerned  voice,  to  tvirn  the  current  of  both 
their  thoughts,  •*  I  suppose  the  other  girls  will  go  off  with  their 
money  to  get  themselves  something  at  the  shops  in  the  village." 

•'  At  the  what  ?  "  Meriem  asked,  with  a  look  of  bewilderment. 

"  At  the  shops,"  Blake  answered,  in  a  jaunty  tone.  "  I  sup- 
pose you've  got  shops  of  some  sort  or  other  in  this  benighted 
country." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  Meriem  answered,  shaking 
her  head  vigorously.  •'  I  never  heard  of  them.  Shops,  did  you 
say  ?  I  don't  think  we've  got  any — unless  it's  cakes ;  but  if  I 
only  knew  exactly  what  you  meant,  and  could  say  it  in  Kabyle, 
I'd  ask  my  uncle." 

Blake  laughed  a  laugh  of  unaffected  amusement.  It  seemed 
so  odd  to  be  talking  to  somebody  in  his  own  tongue— and  so 
familiarly  too — who  had  never  even  so  much  as  heard  what  sort  of 
thing  a  shop  was.  "  Why,  where  do  you  buy  things  ?  "  he 
asked,  curiously.  "  Where  do  you  get  the  food  and  utensils,  and 
so  on,  that  you're  in  want  of  ?  " 

"  We  make  them,  or  grow  them  mostly,  of  course,"  Meriem 
answered,  quickly  (everything,  it  seemed,  was  "  of  course," 
to  Meriem,  because  her  experience  had  all  been  so  limited,  and 
so  uncontradicted) ;  "but  when  we  want  to  buy  anything  from 
other  tribes,  we  go  down  and  get  them  with  money  at  the  mar- 
kets. Or,  sometimes  we  exchange  a  goat  or  a  chicken.  There's  a 
market  one  day  of  the  week,  but  I  don't  remember  its  Englrsb 


M 


THS    TENTS    OF    •Hill. 


nam« — the  (lay  after  Friday — here  with  as  at  BenioMercong ; 
and  there  are  others  on  other  days  at  neighboring  villages,  some- 
times one  and  sometimes  another.  And  that's  where  we  always 
go  to  buy  things." 

Blake  smiled  to  himself  a  smile  of  amused  superiority.  To 
think  that  Le  Marchant  should  have  talked  seriously,  from  a 
marrying  point  of  view,  about  a  girl  who  had  never  even  heard 
of  shopping  1  And  yet  in  more  civilised  European  climes  many 
a  good  man  would  be  heartily  glad  to  find  himself  a  wife  on  whose 
innocent  mind — but  on  second  thoughts  1  refrain  from  making 
any  nasty  reflections. 

He  shut  up  his  sketch-book,  and  rose  to  leave.  Meriem 
looked  after  him  with  a  look  of  regret.  How  wonderful  that  a 
man  should  be  able  to  make  pictures  like  that !  They  seemed 
to  live  and  breath,  she  fancied.  She  had  hardly  ever  seen  a  pic- 
ture at  all  before,  except  a  few  coarse  French  lithographs  brought 
by  the  villagers  at  Tizi-Ouzou.  But  she  had  never  been  so  far 
as  Tizi-Ouzou  even,  herself.  Her  narrow  little  experience  was 
bounded  hard  and  fast  by  her  own  mountain  peak,  and  its 
adjacent  valleys. 

And  how  beautiful  he  looked  when  he  turned  and  smiled  at 
her  I 

But  Blake  went  away  and  thought  of  nothing.  He  showed 
his  sketch  to  Le  Marchant  in  high  spirits  when  he  reached  th© 
tent.  Le  Marchant's  face  feU  as  be  looked  at  it.  **  So  you've 
been  drawing  Meriem  1 "  he  said.  *'  You've  found  her  out 
already  I  A  very  pretty  picture.  You  ought  to  work  it  into 
something  very  good  I  It's  lifelike,  and  therefore  of  course  its 
beautiful.  .  .  .  But  vou've  been  with  Meriem  all  the  mom- 
ing,  while  I've  been  unpacking  my  goods  and  chattels.  I  won- 
dered she  hadn't  been  up  here  before  to  visit  us.*' 


^im^^ 


THE    TENTS    OF    BIIEM. 


6« 


CHAPTER  Vra. 


NO    SOUL. 


For  the  next  wed:  n^  -.n  the  two  young  Enghshmen  wei»; '  u  y 
enough  hunting  and  .SAUiching  all  day  long  among  the  fresii 
ground  they  had  thus  successfully  broken  for  themselves  in  the 
North  African  llighUuids.  Le  i\larcliant  spent  much  of  his  time 
up  among  the  jagged  peaks  and  bare  rocks  of  the  mountains, 
happy  enough  if  he  returned  at  night  with  a  specimen  of  "  that 
rare  and  local  bird,  the  Algerian  titmouse,"  or  with  a  snail  as 
big  as  a  pin's  head,  *•  a  perfect  treasure,  you  know,  my  dear 
fellow,  hitherto  only  known  to  science  in  the  mountains  of  Cala- 
bria and  in  the  Albanian  Highlands."  Zeal  for  his  great  work 
on  "  Structure  and  Function  "  had  swallowed  him  up,  and  gave 
zost  and  importance  to  the  minutest  find  in  beetles  or  gadflies. 

Blake,  on  the  other  liand,  loitered  much  more  around  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  village  itself  and  the  cultivated  plots  tiiat  hung 
along  the  narrow  ledges  of  the  hillside  ;  for  his  quarry  was  man, 
and  he  loved  to  drink  his  fill  of  that  idyllic  life,  so  purely  Arca- 
ilian  in  its  surviving  simplicity,  that  displayed  itself  with  such 
charming  frankness  and  unconcern  before  his  observant  eyes  each 
sunny  morning.  It  was  the  artist's  Greece  revived  for  his 
behoof;  the  Italy  of  the  Georgics  in  real  life  again.  The 
labourer  leaning  hard  on  his  wooden  plough,  the  yoke  of  moun- 
tain oxen  that  tugged  it  through  the  ground,  the  women  at  the 
well  with  their  coarse  hand -made  jars,  the  old  men  chatting 
under  the  shade  of  the  ash-trees  beside  the  tiny  mosque,  all 
afforded  him  subjects  for  innumerable  studies.  He  beheld 
before  his  face  a  Virgilian  eclogue  for  ever  renewing  itself ;  and 
the  young  painter,  who  had  never  read  his  Eclogues  in  the  Latin 
at  all,  could  appreciate  whatever  was  most  vivid  anc'  "rtureprj^ue 
in  the  life  of  these  simple  idyllic  mountaineers  wiiii  an  «';'e  as 
keen  in  its  way  as  Virgil's  own  had  been. 

Meriem,  too,  often  came  up  in  the  evenings  to  the  tent  in  her 
capacity  as  interpreter ;  and  Le  Marchant,  who  could  see  and 
idmire  strong  traits  of  character  wherever  he  found  them,  soon 
learnt  to  read  ici  the  Eabyle-bred  girl,  with  her  open  mind  uid 


'■?^- 


-^irsj^wr 


68 


IBB  TKiti  •!  Nam. 


serene  intelligence,  many  marki  of  fine  and  sterling  qnalities 
But  he  could  gather  little  further  by  all  his  inquiries  about  the 
mystery  of  her  origin.  All  that  Meriem  herself  could  tell  hiui 
of  her  parentage  was  simply  this — Yusuf  had  a  French  name  a? 
well  as  an  English,  and  a  Kabyle  one  ;  and  if  his  Frencii  name 
had  ever  leaked  out,  the  people  at  Fort  National  would  have 
taken  hira  and  shot  him.  Le  Marchant,  indeed,  was  just  at  first 
inclined  to  consider  the  beautiful  girl's  father  was  a  runaway 
convict ! 

Inquiries  directed  through  Meriem 's  mouth  to  her  uncle  tlio 
Amine  were  met  in  a  distinctly  reserved  spirit.  It  seemed  f 
though  the  old  Kabyle  was  afraid  even  now  of  betraying  the  deau 
man's  secret — if  indeed  he  had  one,  or  if  the  Amine  knew  it. 
Perhaps  these  English  might  be  in  league  with  the  infidel  French 
after  all,  and  might  be  plotting  harm  against  himself  and  his 
tribesmen — else  why  should  they  thus  minutely  inquire  about 
the  girl's  antecedents  ?  A  mere  girl ;  why  bother  their  heads 
with  her  ?  Yusuf  was  dead  ;  let  him  sleep  in  peace  where  good 
Moslems  had  laid  him.  All  that  the  Amine  could  or  would  tell 
them  amounted  in  the  end  simply  to  this — that  Meriem 's  father 
had  come  to  them  as  a  guest  after  a  great  battle  in  a  local  insur- 
rection (one  of  those  petty  risings,  no  doubt,  in  which  the  tribes 
of  Kabyle  are  forever  striving  to  reassert  their  independence  of 
French  authority) ;  that  he  was  a  good  man,  who  loved  th( 
Kabyles ;  that  he  wore  the  native  dress,  and  lived  as  the  tri' 
lived ;  that  he  was  a  faithful  Moslem,  and  a  clever  hunter,  cc- 
siderations  apparently  of  equal  importance  in  the  eyes  of  the 
villagers ;  that  he  had  married  Amine's  sister,  Meriem's  mother, 
long  since  dead,  according  to  the  rites  and  ceremonies  of  the 
Kabyle  people  ;  and  that  he  had  died  by  falling  over  a  ledge  of 
rock  three  years  back,  while  wandering  by  himself  under  unex- 
plained circumstances  among  the  high  mountains.  So  much  the 
Amine,  bit  by  bit,  suspiciously  admitted.  With  that  scanty 
information,  no  more  being  forthcoming,  Le  Marchant  for  the 
present  was  forced  to  content  himself. 

Blake,  on  the  other  hand,  with  his  more  easy-going  and 
pleasure-loving  artistic  temperament,  troubled  himself  little  about 
all  these  things.  Gallio  that  he  was,  it  sufficed  him  to  sit  in  th( 
shade  of  the  chestnuts  and  paint  Meriem  as  the  foreground  figure 
in  almf3st  all  his  pictures  rather  than  indulge  in  otiose  specula 
tions  as  to  her  possible  ancestry  and  problematical  parentage 
*•  She's  a  first-rate  model,"  1  '  said,  "  whoever  her  father  may  be 
King  Cophetua's  beggar-maid  could  xieyer  have  been  lovelisr.' 


7   ""!j>r7'*'T^'7r    "  '  t*'?^   "-T^^^"^     r?^     ™  -  f^' 


THJI    TBim   or    tUKil. 


•7 


\nd  that  eontflnted  him.  He  wanted  only  to  find  physical 
beauty.  So  he  got  to  work  soon  on  atiidioa  for  a  large  canvas, 
with  Meriem  in  the  centre,  her  watef -jar  poisod  witli  queenly  gracf- 
upon  her  stately  head  ;  and  he  was  well  satifl.fiud  to  sketcli  lu 
her  shapely  chin  and  throat  without  any  remote  gonealo^'ica! 
inquiries  to  distract  his  mind  from  the  excjuisite  curve  of  her 
nock  and  shouidors. 

"But  if  you're  going  to  give  me  regular  8ittiiiy;H,  Mi'i'iem,"  ho 
.said  to  her  seriously  one  morning  under  the  clinstnuts,  vLMituring 
to  broach  once  more  the  tabooed  subject,  •'  you  must  really  let 
niG  pay  you  so  mucli  a  day,  because  I  sliall  want  you,  of  course, 
for  so  many  hours  every  morning  regulnrly,  and  it'll  take  you 
away  altogether  at  times  from  your  bouHciiold  duties." 

"  My  aunt  can  do  those,"  Meriem  answere<l  quietly  shaking 
her  head.  "  I  like  to  sit  for  you  ;  it  gives  me  pleasure.  I  like 
to  see  these  beautiful  pictures  growing  up  so  curiously  under 
your  hands  ;  it's  almost  hke  magic." 

"  Thank  you,"  tlia  Englishman  answered.  "  That's  very  kind 
of  you,  Praise  from  your  lips,  Meriem,  is  worth  a  great  deal 
10  me." 

He  said  it  lightly,  with  a  smile  and  a  )0W,  as  a  commonplace 
of  politeness,  for  to  him  the  words  meant  V(!ry  little.  But  to 
Meriem,  who  had  never  heard  women  treatoil  with  ordinary 
Western  chivalry  before,  they  were  full  of  profoimd  and  delicious 
meaning;  they  struck  some  unknown  heart-string  deep  down  in 
her  being.  She  blushed  up  to  her  eyes  (a  good  moment  for  a 
|)ainter  ;  J31ake  seized  it  gratefully),  and  then  relapsed  for  a  while 
into  joyful  silence. 

♦'  Yes,  yes  !  just  so  !  "  Blake  cried,  stopping  her  on  a  sudden,  • 
with  both  his  hands  uphfted  in  warning,  as  she  fell  naturally 
into  one  of  her  easy,  graceful  Hellenic  attitu(l(!S.  •'  That's  just 
how  I  want  you  ;  don't  move  a  mu.s(de — you're  beautiful  that 
way.  It  shows  off  your  arm  and  head  and  the  pose  of  your  neck 
to  such  absolute  perfection.  You're  prettier  than  ever  like  that, 
I  dechire,  Meriem." 

Menem,  all  conscious  of  herself  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
stood  as  lie  directed  her,  without  moving  a  line,  bhe  could  have 
stood  there  for  ever,  indeed,  with  Blake  to  paint  her. 

The  artist  went  on  without  noticing  her  emotion. 

**  Don't  let  my  uncle  know,"  she  said,  after  a  short  pause,  with 
some  slight  embarrassment,  and  hesitating  as  she  spoke,  •'  that 
you  offered — that  you  wanted — toinve  me  money  for  sitting." 
I  won't,"  BUke   answeretl,    laughing ;  ••  I  can  piomi«e  yon 


m 


'si  I 


ii 


TBS  TENTS  OF   8HS1I. 


that.  With  my  present  knowledge  of  his  language,  indeed,  I 
iliould  find  it  diflBcult."  He  played  with  his  brush— dab,  dab, 
on  the  canvas.     ••  But  why  not,  Meriem  ?  " 

The  girl  blushed  again.  •♦  Because — he  would  take  it/'  she 
answered  simply. 

Blake  smiled  and  nodded,  but  said  nothing. 

They  were  standing  outside  the  village  on  the  open  space  in 
front  of  the  tiny  whitewashed  mosque,  and  men  and  women 
came  past  frequently,  and  paused  to  look,  with  clicks  of  surprise 
or  interest  or  approbation,  at  the  portrait  on  the  easel,  as  Blake 
sat  and  painted  it.  Presently,  a  young  Kabyle  of  handsome 
form,  and  well-made  features  came  up  in  his  turn,  and  loolied, 
hke  the  others  ;^then  he  turned  round  sharply,  and  spoke  for  a, 
while,  with  a  somewhat  earnest  air,  to  Meriem  ;  and,  as  Blake 
imagined,  there  was  audible  in  his  tone  some  undercurrent  of 
imperious  and  angry  expostulation. 

"  Who's  that  ?  "  the  Englishman  asked,  looking  up  with  a 
quick  glance  from  his  seat  on  the  rock  as  the  Kabyle  turned  on 
his  heel  and  retired  half-haughtily. 

•♦  That's  Ahmed,"  Meriem  answered,  in  the  same  •*  of  course  " 
style  of  conversation  as  usual,  as  if  everybody  must  needs  know 
all  her  fellow-villagers. 

"  And  who's  Ahmed  ?  "  the  painter  went  on,  still  working 
steadily  at  the  flesh-tints  of  the  shoulder. 

"  The  man  who's  going  to  marry  mo,"  Meriem  answered,  in 
just  as  quiet  and  matter-of-fact  a  voice  as  that  in  which  she 
vvould  have  told  him  tlie  price  of  spring  chickens. 

Blake  starred  back  in  almost  speechless  surprise. 

•'  That  man  marry  you  I  "  he  cried,  with  a  toss  of  his  hand- 
some head.  "  Why,  he's  nothing  but  a  common  Kabyle  mule- 
driver.  What  impudence  I  What  presumption  !  And  do  you 
love  him,  Meriem  ?  " 

**  No,"  Meriem  answered,  in  the  sjime  calm  and  downriglit 
voice,  without  the  slightest  attempt  at  concealmg  ber  feelings  in 
that  particular. 

"  Then  why  on  earth  are  you  going  to  marry  him  ? "  Blake 
ask,  astonished. 

"  Because  my  uncle  has  agreed  to  sell  me  to  hira,"  Meriem 
said,  simply.  "  As  soon  as  Ahmed's  earned  money  enou,L,^h  to 
buy  me,  my  uncle's  going  to  let  him  have  me  clieap.  Perhaps 
Ahmed  *11  have  saved  enougli  by  the  rieNt  olive  harvest.  He's 
offered  my  uncle  a  very  fair  price  ;  he's  going  to  give  him  ?» 
natch  of  land  and  two  Inindrod  francs  for  me." 


"T? 


not  TBNTl  or  SfiSM.  tv 

Blake  was  genninely  shocked  and  surprlserl  -^f  thisfinful  'T-«?- 
closure.  In  spite  of  his  contempt  for  barbu-.o  women,  he  .cit 
instinctively  already  that  Meriem  was  far  too  much  of  an  En<,'lish 
girl  at  heart  to  be  bought  and  sold  Uke  a  sheep  or  a  chattel.  He 
explained  to  her,  briefly,  m  simple  words,  that  in  En^-Jund  such 
means  of  arra^nging  marriages  were  not  openly  countenanced  bj 
either  law  or  custom  ;  indeed,  with  a  generous  disregard  of  plain 
facts — allowable,  perhaps,  under  the  peculiar  circumstances — he 
avoided  all  reference  to  settlements  or  jointures,  and  boldly 
averred,  with  pardonable  poetic  license,  that  Englishwomen 
always  bestowed  their  hearts  and  hands  on  the  man  of  V\"'a 
choice  who  seemed  to  them  most  worthy  of  their  young  affections. 

"  That's  a  beautiful  way,"  Meriem  murmured,  reflectively, 
after  the  handsome  painter  had  dilated  with  enthusiasm  for  s^ 
few  minutes  on  the  purity  and  nobility  of  our  English  marriage 
system.  *•  That's  a  lovely  way.  I  should  like  that  ever  so  much. 
I  wish  for  some  things  I  had  been  born  in  England.  Althougi 
you're  all  infidels,  you  have  some  good  ways  there.  But  here,  iu 
Kabyhe,  of  course,  I  must  follow  in  all  things  the  Kabyk 
custom." 

*♦  So  you  mean  to  obey,  and  to  marry  Ahmed  ?  "  Blake  asked, 
half-shocked,  but  continuing  to  work  at  the  elbow  and  forearm. 

"What  else  can  I  do?"  Meriem  asked,  looking  up  with  % 
quiet  sigh.     *•  I  can't  refuse  to  go  where  my  uncle  bids  me." 

"  But  how  can  you  find  it  in  your  soul — "  Blake  began,  hall 
indignantly, 

"  I've  got  no  soul,"  Meriem  interrupted,  in  a  perfectly  serioua 
voice.     "  We  Mussulmuii  women  are  born  without  any." 

**  Weil,  soul  or  no  soul,  wouldn't  you  much  prefer,"  Blal  e 
went  on  with  fire,  warming  up  to  his  subject,  "  instead  of  marry- 
ing that  fellow  with  the  mules,  who'll  probably  abuse  you,  and 
over-work  you,  and  beat  you,  and  ill-treat  you,  to  marry  some 
Enghshman  with  a  heart  and  a  head,  who'd  love  you  well,  and 
be  proud  of  your  beauty,  and  dehght  in  decking  you  out  in 
becoming  dress,  and  be  to  you  a  friend,  and  a  shield,  and  a 
lov«r,  and  a  protector  ?  " 

A  bright  light  burned  for  a  moment  like  a  flame  in  Meriem's 
eyes ;  then  she  cast  them  down  to  the  ground,  and  her  bosom 
lieaved,  as  she  answered  slowly  in  a  very  low  voice,  "  No  Kabyle 
ever  spoke  to  a  woman  like  that.  They  don't  know  how.  It's 
not  in  their  language.  But  Yusuf  used  to  speak  to  me  often  that 
s  y.  And  he  loved  my  mother,  and  was,  oh,  so  kind  to  her,  till 
1)8  day  she  died.     I  thmk  you  English,  infidels  as  you  aru^ 


am 


m^ 


60 


must  be  in  some  ways  a  blessed  people ;  bo  diflferent  from  tlie 
French — the  French  are  wicked.  It's  a  pity  the  EngUsh  aren't 
true  believers." 

Her  heart  was  beating  visibly  through  her  robe  now.  '  Blake 
felt  he  had  said  a  Httle  too  much,  perhaps,  for  lie  meant  notlnng 
more  than  the  merest  flirtation  ;  so  he  turned  the  subject  with  a 
careless  smile  to  the  get-up  of  tlie  picture.  "  I'm  going  on  to 
your  hand  and  wrist  next,  Meriein,"  he  said  with  a  wave,  rising 
up  to  pose  her  fingers  exactly  as  he  wanted  thein.  ••  Look  here, 
this  locket  round  your  neck's  in  the  way.  Coaldn't  you  take  it 
off?  It  spoils  the  natural  folds  of  your  drapery,  and  incom- 
modes the  hand  so." 

It  was  a  small  square  charm,  in  shape  like  a  ^  box  or  book, 
made  of  coarse  silver  work,  inlaid  with  enamel,  .jid  relieved  by 
bosses  of  lapus-lazuli,  and  other  cheap  stones,  such  as  all  Kabyle 
women  wear  as  an  amulet  hung  round  their  necks  to  protect 
them  from  the  evil  eye,  and  other  misfortunes.  ••  With  coral 
clasps  and  amber  studs,"  Blake  murmured  to  himself,  as  he 
looked  at  it  closely.  He  laid  his  hand  upon  it  with  a  gosture  of 
apology,  and  a  "  Will  you  permit  me,  Meriem  ?  " — moaning  to 
remove  it  by  passing  the  chain  over  her  head  and  kaftan.  But 
the  girl,  with  a  sudden  convulsive  eii'ort  of  both  her  hands, 
clasped  it  hard  and  tight  to  her  bosom.  •*  Oh,  no,"  she  cried, 
"  not  that,  not  that,  please  I  You  must  never  take  that.  I 
couldn't  possibly  allow  you.  You  mustn't  even  touch  it.  Its 
very  precious.     You  mast  keep  your  hands  off  it." 

"  Is  it  something,  then,  so  absolutely  sacred  ?  "  Blake  asked, 
half  laughingly,  and  suspecting  some  curious  Mahoramedan 
superstition, 

•'  Yes,  more  than  sacred,"  Meriem  answered  low.  "  It  was 
Ynsnf  who  hung  it  there  when  he  was  going  away,  and  he  told 
nic  often,  witli  tears  in  his  eyes,  never  to  let  anybody  lay  hands 
npon  it  anywhere.  And  nobody  ever  shall,  till  1  die  with  it  on 
my  neck.  For  lusuf's  sake  it  shall  always  hang  there.  When 
I've  borne  a  son  " — she  said  it  so  simply  that  Blake  hardly 
noticed  the  unconventional  phrase — •'  the  Kabyle  custom  is  to 
wear  the  charm,  for  an  honour,  on  the  forehead.  But  I  shall 
never  move  mine  from  my  neck  at  all,  though  the  women  may 
laugh  at  me.     I  shall  wear  it  for  ever  where  my  father  hung  it." 

The  painter,  abashed,  held  his  peace  at  once,  and  asked  her  no 
more.  He  saw  she  felt  too  deeply  on  the  subject  to  malie  it 
either  wise  or  kind  for  him  to  interfere  with  her  feehng. 

That  evening;  at  the  tent,  as  he  sat  with  Le  Marchant,  stofi^g 


noi  Txmri  of  shxu. 


61 


birds  and  pinning  out  butterflies,  Meriem  came  tip  with  a  mes- 
sage from  the  Amine  about  some  domestic  trifle  of  milk  supply 
or  goat'-mntton.  Le  Marchant  was  glad  to  see  her.  too,  for  he 
wanted  to  ask  her  a  favour  for  himself.  Perhaps  he  was  jealous 
that  his  handsome  lodger  should  monopolise  so  large  a  portion 
of  the  beautiful  Kabyle  girl's  time  and  attention ;  perhaps,  being 
by  nature  of  a  studious  turn,  he  was  genuinely  anxious  to  make 
the  best  of  his  linguistic  opportunities.  At  any  rate,  he  wanted 
to  inquire  of  Meriem  whether  she  would  give  him  lessons  in  the 
evening  in  the  Kabyle  language.  Meriem  laughed.  She  was 
perfectly  ready  to  do  her  best,  she  said,  provided  always  the 
lessons  were  given  with  all  publicity  on  the  platform  outside 
the  Amine's  cottage. 

•*  For  our  Kabyle  men,'-'  she  added,  with  her  transparent  sim- 
plicity, •*  are  very  jealous,  you  know — very,  very  jeaious.  They 
would  never  allow  me  to  come  here  to  teach  you.  If  I  came 
without  leave,  they  would  stick  knives  into  me." 

"  And  may  I  learn  too  7  "  the  painter  asked,  with  his  sunny 
smile. 

"  Yes,  Blake,  certainly,"  Meriem  answered  at  once,  with 
natural  politeness. 

Both  the  men  laughed.     From  that  stately  and  beautiful 

girl's  lips  the  mannish  colloquialism  sounded  irresistibly  funny. 

"  You  mustn't  say  *  Blake,'  "  the  painter  exclaimed,  in  answer 

to  Meriem's  startled  look  of  mute  enquiry  at  their  unexpected 

merriment. 

"  But  Le  Marchant  always  calls  you  Blake,"  Meriem  objected, 
much  puzzled.  "  Li  England  don't  people  think  it  right  for 
women  to  call  men  by  their  own  names,  then  ?  " 

**  Well,  not  by  their  surnames  alone  ;  it  doesn't  sound  nice. 
They  generally  put  a  Mr.  before  them.  But  if  you  like,"  Blake 
went  on  with  audacious  ease,  for  he  was  far  from  shy  before  the 
poor  Kabyle  girl,  "  you  may  call  me  Vernon.  That's  my  Chris- 
tian name ;  and  that's  how  Englishwomen  alwaya  call  a  man 
they  know  well  and  really  care  for." 

"  I  really  care  for  you,  Vernon ;  I  like  you  very  much," 
Meriem  said,  straightforwardly. 

"  In  that  case,  I  too  shall  claim  the  same  privilege  of  friend- 
ship, and  ask  you  to  call  me  plain  Eustace,"  Le  Marchant  put 
in,  with  gentle  solicitude. 

"  Very  well,  Plain  Eustace,"  Meriem  answered,  in  her  inno- 
cence, taking  the  name  in  good  faith  as  a  single  compound 
oae. 


™.^^  "iwr ."  ^'^  ,5r;  ."■  '^' 


69 


TBM   VSMTI  or  8HSM. 


i:- 


The  laaghter  that  met  this  anintontional  sally  WM  90  ffltj 
Rontagious,  that  Meriem  herself  joined  in  it  heartily,  though  it 
A'ds  some  minutes  before  she  could  be  made  fully  to  oncUritand 
liie  intricate  mysteries  of  European  nomenclature. 

When  she  had  left  the  tent,  that  night,  her  errand  flniihed, 
Le  Marchant  turned  round  to  his  easy-going  travelling  ooxnpan* 
ion  with  much  earnestness  in  his  quiet  eye.  "  Blake,"  he  laid, 
seriously,  "  I  hope  you're  not  trying  to  make  that  poor  girl  fall 
ill  love  with  you." 

"  I'm  not  domg  anything  to  make  her  fail  in  love,"  Blake  an- 
swered, evasively ;  •'  but  she's  never  met  anybody  who  treated 
lier  decently  in  her  Hfe  before,  and  I  suppose  she  can't  help  per- 
ceiving the  .  .  .  well,  you  know,  the  difference  between  you 
or  me,  for  example,  and  these  ignorant  Kabyle  fellows.'* 

"  Blake,  you  must  surely  see  for  yourself  that  in  feeling  and 
iij  intellect  the  girl's  more  than  half  an  Englishwoman.  If  you 
u'in  her  heart,  and  then  go  away  and  leave  her  without  a  word 
to  this  man  you  say  her  uncle's  sold  her  to,  you'U  murder  her  as 
truly  as  if,  like  the  Kabyles,  you  stuck  a  knife  into  her." 

Blake  shuffled  about  uneasily  on  his  camp-stool.  *•  She  can't 
be  such  a  fool  as  to  think  I  should  ever  dream  of  marrying  her," 
he  replied,  with  a  half-averted  face. 

li€  Marchant  looked  across  at  him  with  mild  eyes  of  wonder. 
'  At  any  rate,  Blake,  '  he  said,  in  a  very  solemn,  warning  vole*, 
•'  don't  engage  her  affections  and  then  desert  ner.  She  may  bo 
a  Kabyle  in  outward  dress  ;  but  to  do  that  would  bo  ae  cruel  n 
deed  as  ever  you  could  do  to  one  of  those  educated  EngliH 
ladies  you  think  so  much  about.  Of  one  blood — all  the  nation- 
of  the  earth.     Hearts  are  hearts  the  whole  world  over." 

BlaJte  was  silent,  and  threw  back  his  head  carelessly  to  ius^u*  t 
the  aketch  he  was  busily  cooking. 


IN 


TTTK    TENTS    Of    SHEIf. 


Bh 


OHAPTEB  TL 


STBnUNa   ▲   0LT7B. 

It  was  a  glorious  hot  day  in  an  Algerian  July.  The  mountains 
stood  clear  from  cloud  in  every  direction,  wioh  their  peaks  etched 
out  distinctly  against  the  grey  background  of  the  hazy-white 
sky  ;  and  Le  Marchant  made  up  his  mind  early  in  the  morning 
to  attempt  the  upper  slopes  of  the  Lalla  Khadidja  dome,  one  of 
the  highest  umong  the  surging  giants  of  the  Djurjura,  covered 
thick  with  snow  for  nine  months  of  the  year,  but  now  just  free 
at  last,  under  the  influence  of  a  burning  hot  spell  of  sirocco,  from 
the  white  cap  it  had  worn  since  the  beginning  of  winter.  Blake, 
ever  eager  in  the  quest  of  the  picturesque,  was  rnady  enough  to 
join  him  in  his  mountaineering  expedition  ;  while  Meriem,  who 
had  once  or  twice  made  her  way  on  foot  as  a  pilgrim  to  the  tiny 
Mahommedan  shrine  of  the  Lalla  Khadidja,  which  hes  nestled 
amid  snowdrifts  just  below  the  summit,  had  after  some  hesita- 
tion agreed  to  accompany  them,  with  two  other  of  tlie  village 
girls,  as  guide  and  interpreter.  Nothing  could  have  been  nicer 
or  more  satisfactory — to  the  painter.  Just  at  the  last  moment, 
however,  as  the  party  was  on  the  very  point  of  starting,  t-hat  for- 
midable Ahmed  came  lounging  up,  v.ith  his  full-fed  air  of  Oriental 
insolence,  to  interpose  his  prospective  veto.  It  made  Blake's 
hlood  boil  to  see  how  the  fellow  treated  that  beautiful  model. 
For  some  minutes  he  spoke  in  a  hectoring  .voice  with  Meriem  ; 
and  it  was  clear  from  the  gestures  and  tones  of  the  pair  that 
Meriem  for  her  part  was  by  uo  means  measured  in  the  terms  of 
her  answers. 

"  What  does  the  man  say  ?  "  Blake  asked  at  last  unable  to 
restram  his  disgust  and  anger. 

•'  He  ssys,"  the  girl  answered,  with  a  flushed  face,  ••  he'll 
never  let  me  go  mountain  climbing  with  the  infidels.  But  I  don't 
care  a  pin.  He's  a  bad  man.  He's  jealous — jealous ;  that's 
what  he  means  by  it." 

"  And  what  did  you  tell  him  ?  " 

••  I  told  him,"  Meriem  replied  with  a  little  stamp  of  her  shoe 
less  foot  on  the  bare  rock,  "  ho  might  order  me  about  when  he'd 


!<»f . 


•*fr--    •- 


64 


nn  nMxs  •r  shxm. 


bought  me  and  paid  for  me ;  but  at  present  I'm  free,  and  my 
own  mistress.  I  shall  go  whera  I  choose — till  I'm  bought  and 
paid  for." 

As  she  spoke,  the  young  Kabyle's  hand  played  ominously  on 
the  hilt  of  the  short  steel  knife  that  every  mountaineer  of  the 
Algerian  hills  carries  always  in  his  girdle  as  a  weapon  of  offence. 
For  a  straw,  he  would  have  drawn  it  and  stabbed  her  to  the 
heart.  Le  Marchant  observed  the  gesture  with  his  quick  eye, 
and  suggested  hastily,  •'  Ask  him  if  he'll  go  himself  and  guide 
us  ?  We'U  pay  him  well — give  him  two'  francs  for  conducting 
•18  to  the  summit."' 

Yomr  Kabyle  never  refuses  money.  Ahmed  assented  with 
-leUght  to  the  modified  proposal,  and  his  fingers  ceased  toying  at 
once  with  the  handle  of  his  dagger.  Le  Marchant  had  done  a 
double  stroke  of  business ;  appeased  his  jealousy  and  gratified 
his  innate  loye  of  gain — the  two  universal  mainsprings  of  action 
in  the  poor  and  passionate  Kabyle  nature. 

They  started  on  their  wuj ,  the  three  men  alone  ;  and  Meriem 
gazed  long  and  wistfully  after  them  with  a  surging  sense  of 
unrest  and  disappointment.  Something  within  her  stirred  her 
deeply — something  she  could  never  venture  to  confide  to  Mouni 
or  to  Yamina,  her  closest  intimates.  How  handsome  he  looked, 
in  his  rough  tourist  suit,  that  delicate  young  painter  with  the 
speaking  eyes,  beside  Ahmed,  her  betrothed,  in  his  dirty  bur- 
nouse and  his  ragged  undershirt  I  How  beautifully  he  talked 
and  how  beautifully  he  painted,  and  what  strangely  divine  things 
he  knew  how  to  say  to  her  I  Echoes  of  some  unknown  world, 
those  sweet  fresh  words  of  his !  She  gazed  and  gazed,  and 
tears  filled  her  eyes.  Her  soul  revolted  with  a  shock  against 
Ahmed. 

Could  she  really  be  falling  in  love — with  an  infidel  ? 

And  then  a  sudden  terror  began  to  seize  her  heart  when  they 
were  well  on  their  way,  and  past  hope  of  overtaking.  Should 
she  run  after  them  and  warn  them  of  the  possible  danger  ? 
fialla  Khadidja  is  a  steep  and  precipitous  mountain,  Ml  of  rear- 
ing crags  and  crevasses  and  gullies.  Supposing  Ahmed,  whom 
she  knew  to  be  jealous  of  the  two  young  Englishmen,  were  to 
push  them  over  some  dangerous  ledge,  and  pretend  they  had 
fallen  by  accident  while  climbing  I  To  a  Kabyle  such  treatment 
of  the  infidel  would  seem  positively  meritorious.  The  idea 
turned  her  sick  with  alarm  and  anxiety.  She  could  hardly  hold 
the  threads  at  the  upright  frame  where  -she  sat  all  day,  in  tlie 
Amine's  hut,  weaving  a  many-coloured  native  haik  for  herself,  a 


*'■-  .^f  ■  ■•!v'',f^;,"»"(JT'Mf.5»  yP-  ■■.'' 


fBB  TBMTt  OF 


65 


mighty  labour  of  the  loom,  to  wear — ^hen  she  was  married  to 
Ahmed.  Married  to  Ahmed  I  The  thought  of  it  sickened  her. 
Till  lately  it  seemed  so  natural — and  now !  She  longed  for  the 
evening  and  the  travellers'  return.  Allah  in  His  goodness  protect 
the  Englishmen  I 

But  the  two  young  men,  meanwhile;  all  ignorant  of  her  fears 
toiled  up  the  craggy  slopes  towards  the  bold  summit  of  the  great 
shadowy  mountain.  As  soon  as  Meriem  was  fairly  out  of  hear- 
ing, Blake  turned  round  to  his  companion,  and  asked  in  a  tone 
half  angry,  half  disappointed.  ••  What  on  earth  made  you  bring 
this  fellow  along  with  us  at  all  ?  We  could  have  found  our  own 
way  to  the  top  very  well  without  him." 

'*  Why,  I  was  afraid  to  leave  him  behind  with  Meriem,"  Le 
Marchant  answered,  with  a  quick  glance  at  the  sinister  face  of 
their  scowUng  guide.  "  In  the  fellow's  present  temper,  with 
his  blood  up,  it  would  take  very  httle  to  make  him  stick  a  knife 
into  her.  I  know  these  people ;  they're  quick,  and  they're 
revengeful.  A  word  and  a  stab  is  the  rule  of  the  tribes,  espe- 
cially with  women.  They  kill  a  woman  with  far  less  compunc- 
tion than  you  or  I  would  show  in  treading  on  a  scorp:on." 

"  He's  a  brute,"  Blake  answered,  striking  the  rock  with  his 
stick,  "  and  I'm  glad  she  hates  him." 

For  some  hours  they  continued  their  toilsome  march,  ever 
up  and  up,  with  the  wide  view  opening  wider  each  step  before 
them. 

Towards  the  summit  of  the  xiountain,  where  the  rocks  were 
hardest,  they  came  suddenly  on  a  rearing  crag  of  porphyry,  as 
red  as  blood,  and  as  hard  as  granite.  It  was  a  beautiful  mass, 
and  a  beautiful  prospect  spread  out  in  front  of  it.  Le  Marchant 
sat  down  at  its  base  in  the  shade  (for,  high  as  they  stood,  the 
sun's  rays  still  scorched  fiercely),  and  refreshed  himself  with  a 
pull  at  his  pocket  flask  of  whisky  and  water.  On  its  north  side, 
a  cave  or  rock-shelter  ran  far  into  its  face.  Something  on  the 
precipitous  wall  of  the  crag  within  this  cave  caught  Blake's  quick 
eye  as  he  glanced  up  at  the  ferns  in  the  crannied  rock  with  a 
painter's  interest.  ♦•  Surely,"  he  cried,  in  immense  surprise, 
pointing  up  with  his  stick,  ♦•  that's  an  inscription  written  or 
carved  on  the  "cliff  in  English  letters  I  " 

Le  Marchant  jumped  up  and  looked  at  the  object  hard.  It 
was  indeed  an  inscription,  covered  thick  with  moss  and  lichen, 
which  gather  so  rapidly  in  these  southern  climates,  and  over- 
grown by  masses  of  maiden  hair  and  ceterach  ;  but,  by  scraping 
it  with  a  knife,  it  soon  became  legible.    The  letters  were  firm 


iiiii 


TBI   TBNTC  Of   IHXM 


And  boldly  incised,  and  the  legend  rau  thus,  pm  Le  Marahant  read 
ii  oat  aloud,  in  Boman  capitals — 

CLARENCE  KNYVETT. 

SUA   IPSIU8    MANU    FKCIT  *. 

ANNO  nEj\njE 
aiocLxiv. 

"What  does  it  all  mean  ?  "  Blake  asked,  somewhat  timidly, 
for  he  hated  to  display  his  ignorance  of  the  learned  languages 
before  his  scientific  companion,  who  seemed  to  knoyir  everything. 

'•  It  means,"  Le  Marchant  answered,  "  '  Clarence  Knyvett 
wrote  this  with  his  own  hand  in  the  year  of  the  Hejira  1204.'  " 

"  What  the  dickens  is  the  Hejira  ?  "  Blake  asked  again. 

••  The  year  of  Mahommed's  flight  to  Medina,"  Le  Marchant 
answered,  with  a  politely  stifled  smile  at  such  ingenuous  ignor- 
ance. "  It  stands  in  the  East  for  a.  d.  with  us.  It's  the  date 
from  which  the  Mussulmans  reckon  their  era." 

"  And  how  long  ago  was  1264  by  this  precious  date  ?  "  Blake 
asked  once  more,  suspecting  it,  vaguely,  to  be  somewhere  about 
the  days  of  the  Crusaders. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly — I'm  not  up  in  my  calendar — but  quite 
recently,  I  should  be  inclined  to  say.  Somewhere  within  the 
last  twenty  years  or  so  at  most.  The  Hejira,  you  know,  was 
early  in  the  seventh  century." 

"  Then  I'^'l  tell  you  what,"  Blake  cried,  with  a  start  of  sur- 
prise, *'  Meriom's  father  must  have  written  that  up  there  I  "  . 

♦•  Great  wit?  jump.  The  very  same  thought  had  just  occurred 
to  me  at  the  very  same  moment." 

'♦  I'll  copy  it  in  my  skotch-book,  exactly  as  it  stands,"  Blake 
cried,  sitting  down  again  and  pulling  out  that  faithful  companion 
of  his  wanderings.  And  in  ten  minutes  he  had  produced  on 
paper  a  vongh  facsimile  of  the  inscription  in  its  own  letters,  with 
an  outline  of  the  mass  of  rock  on  which  it  was  cut,  and  the  wall- 
flowers and  stocks  and  maiden  hair  fenis  that  sprang  out  of  the 
crannies  in  the  crag  all  around  it. 

*•  If  Meriem's  father  really  wrote  it,"  he  said,  as  he  shut  up 
the  book  again,  "  it'll  be  a  pleasant  souvenir  to  caVry  away  with 
us  of  the  girl ;  and,  in  any  case,  it's  interesting  as  the  record  of 
a  previous  European  visit  in  such  a  spot.  I  thought  we  were 
the  first  who  evur  burst  into  that  silent  cave.  Besides,  it  makes 
quite  a  pretty  little  picture." 

As  he  spoke  AJimod  signifie<1.  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  that 
it  was  time  for  theiu  tu  go  if  tliry  wished  to  rise  and  descend 


TOjK 


''^f'rW^mW^' 


na   TBMTl   Of  SBXM. 


Again  before  sunset ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  were  fairly  at 

the  summit. 

It  was  with  a  beating  heart  that  Meriem  waited  for  them  to 
come  back  again  that  evening,  safe  and  sound,  from  the  terrors 
of  the  treacherous  mountain.  She  watched  for  them  on  the  path 
some  way  out,  whither  she  had  gone  to  meet  them,  ostensibly 
for  the  purpose  of  driving  the  goats  home  to  the  milking,  but 
really  to  relieve  her  own  inner  anxiety.  As  she  saw  them  her 
bosom  gave  one  great  bound.  Blake  raised  his  hat  with  jaunty 
gallantry,  and  opening  his  book  handed  her  over  the  sketch,  on 
purpose  to  see  if  the  name  on  the  rock  roused  any  latent  chord 
in  her  uncertain  memory.  But  she  looked  at  it  blankly.  "  It's 
pretty,"  she  said,  "  though  not  so  pretty  as  most  of  your  sketches  " 
— for  her  stock  of  English  was  rapidly  increasing  under  her  new 
teachers.  '*  I  don't  see  much  in  it — only  a  piece  of  rook  and  a 
few  small  scratches.  Are  those  letters,  I  wonder  7  They  look 
like  letters  ;  yet  they're  not  the  same  as  one  reads  in  the  Koran." 

•«  What  I  Can't  you  read  English  ?  "  Blake  cried,  in  surprise. 
It  seemed  strange  to  him  that  one  who  could  speak  so  well,  with 
the  accent  and  manner  of  an  educated  lady,  should  be  unable  to 
spell  out  one  word  of  our  language. 

••  No,"  Meriem  answered,  with  a  shake  of  her  head.  "  I  can't 
read  it.  Yusuf  meant  I  should  learn  to  read  it  in  time ;  but  we 
had  no  books ;  and  he  died  so  suddenly  ;  and  then,  of  course,  it 
was  all  forgotten." 

"  Well,"  Le  Marchant  interposed,  with  a  fresh  test — for  he, 
too,  was  anxious  to  try  experiments — "  the  first  word — this  one 
here  on  the  face  of  the  rouk,  you  see — is  Clarence." 

Meriem's  brow  gathered  suddenly.  One  moment  her  memory 
aeemed  to  strike  at  last  a  long-forgotten  track.  Next  instant  she 
cried  with  a  brijjht  flash  of  recognition,  ♦•  Yes,  yes,  that's  it ! 
He  wrote  it !  He  wrote  it !  I  remember  now.  I  remember 
it  well.  My  father's  English  name  was  ....  Clarence 
Knyvett  I  " 

"  Right !  "  Le  Marchant  answered,  with  a  gleam  of  triumpli. 
"  That's  just  what's  written  there  ;  •  Clarence  Knyvett,  with  hi? 
own  hand,  in  the  year  V.ICA  of  the  Hejira.'  " 

The  girl  seized  the  book  rapturously  in  her  hand,  and  kissed 
the  picture   three  or  four  times  over.     "It's   his!"   she  cri?'! 
again,  hi  an  ecstasy  of  joy.    "  He  wrote  it !     He  wrote  it  I     ilo 
good  of  you  to  bring  it.     It  was  Yusut' !     Yusuf  !  " 

He  was  the  only  soul  on  esu'tli  she  had  ever  known--  «!avp  one 
perhaps — who  friltillnd  to  the  utmost  the  yuanuiigs  ol  Uer  pro 
found  liuropean  erootional  nature,     • 


^*^u 


^^^ 


■•iPf^f^B^^^!^?^''!?!?*^ 


ffHM  TXKTB  or  SEOUL 


I 


■M    ^ 


As  tllo  two  men  sat  alone  in  their  tent  that  night,  while  Diego 
was  bii^a^ed  in  pressing  the  Alpine  flowers  from  Le  Marchant'a 
collecting  case,  the  artist  looked  up,  and  said  to  his  friend,  sud- 
denly, •♦  Wasn't  Knyvett  the  name  of  that  Girton  girl,  you 
remember,  who  was  made  Third  Olassio  or  something  of  the 
sort  the  other  day  at  Cambridge  ?  " 

**  Yes,"  Le  Marchant  answered ;  "  a  Miss  Iiii  Enyvett.  She's 
a  nieoe,  I  believe,  of  Sir  Arthur,  the  rich  old  General,  I  thought 
oi  that  myself,  as  soon  as  I  saw  it.  The  name's  an  unoommon 
one.    It's  a  curious  coincidence." 

"  How  queer  it  would  be,"  Blake  went  on,  reflectively,  "  if 
this  girl  were  to  turn  out  a  member  of  the  same  family." 

**  It  wouldn't  at  all  surprise  me,"  his  friend  replied,  with  pro- 
founder  meaning.  *'  Whoever  her  father  was,  he  must  at  least 
have  been  an  educated  man.  Her  English,  as  far  as  it  goes, 
you  must  surely  have  noticed,  is  the  pure  English  of  ladies  and 
gentlemen." 

**  But  what  a  gulf  between  them  t "  Blake  exclaimed,  with 
emphasis.  "  A  girl  who  can't  even  read  or  write — and  a  Third 
Gassic  I " 

"  She  can  read  the  Koran,"  Le  Marchant  answered,  quickly. 
*'  One  language  is  always  the  key  of  another.  And,  indeed,  I 
think  I  can  see  in  her  something  of  the  same  earnest  and  vigor- 
ous qualities  that  imply,  to  one  who  looks  below  externals,  the 
stuff  for  making  many  Third  Classics.** 

"  My  dear  Le  Marchant,  you  carry  things  too  far  I "  Upon 
my  word,  I  really  believe  you're  half  in  love  with  her  I  ** 

Le  Marchant  paused  for  a  moment  before  replying.  "  It's- 
more  to  the  point  to  remember,"  he  said  at  last,  a  little  con- 
strainedly, "  that  she's  very  much  bettBr  than  half  in  love  with 
you,  Blake,  and  that  you've  got  no  right,  thinking  as  you  do,  to 
encourage  the  fueling." 

Blake  laughed  gaily.  "  Oh,  it's  all  right,"  he  answered',  in  an 
tmooncemed  tone.  "  In  the  autumn,  you  know,  she's  to  marry 
Ahmed."  To  say  the  truth,  the  implied  imputation  of  being  a 
lady-killer,  even  in  the  case  of  a  mere  Kabyle  ppRsant  girl, 
nihAT  iatUiAd'hu  seuaiUvd  artifii'g  soul  than  othaiwiati. 


OHAPTEB  X. 


IXTAL   OLAIUS. 

Harold  Entvett,  Esquire,  of  the  Board  of  Trade,  and  late  of 
Irinity  College,  Oambridge,  lounged  lazily  back  in  a  leather- 
uovered  arm-chair  in  the  comfortable  smoking-room  of  the 
Cheyne  Row  Club,  Piccadilly. 

"  Well  yes,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  remarked,  with  a  languid  sigh 
to  the  sympathetic  friend  (last  left  in  town)  who  stood  com- 
placently, cigarette  in  hand,  with  his  back  to  the  empty  carved 
marble  fire-place,  •'  I  ought  to  come  in  for  it ;  there's  no  doubt 
at  all  in  the  world  about  that.  And  I  expect  I  shall  too,  for  I've 
laid  my  plans  dee|)ly,  and  I've  played  my  cards  warily.  Sir 
Arthur's  a  difficult  person  to  deal  with,  I  admit — between  you 
and  me  and  the  club  clock,  as  selfish  an  old  pig  as  ever  walked 
this  earth,  and  pig-headed  to  match,  into  the  bargain.  But 
allowing  for  all  that — and  I've  allowed  liberally — I've  made 
tilings  moderately  certain  in  the  end,  I  flatter  myself ;  so  that 
one  way  or  the  other  I'm  tolerably  sure  to  turn  up  trumps, 
unless  the  cards  miscarry." 

"That's  well,"  the  sympathetic  friend  responded,  cheerfully. 
"  I  believe  the  only  other  person  who  has  any  cl.?im  to  the  estate 
is  your  famous  cousin,  that  unspeakable  Girton  girl,  who  licked 
all  tlio  men  but  two  in  the  'Varsity  into  a  cooked  hat,  isn't  she  ?  " 

"  Exactly  so.  The  only  other  person ;  and  to  make  things 
doubly  sure,  I've  kept  my  hand  well  in  meanwhile  vnth  her,  too ; 
so  that  if  the  worst  should  ever  come  to  the  worst,  I  shall 
simply  marry  her,  you  see,  and  take  the  property  that  way — 
with  an  encumbrance,  unfortunately.  For  I  confess,  being  by 
Miiture  a  lover  of  freedom,  I  should  prefer  it  for  my  own  part 
wholly  unburdened." 

"  And  suppose  she  won't  have  yon  ?  "  his  Mend  suggested, 
with  a  faint  smile  of  doubt. 

"Won't  have  me  ?  My  dear  sir,  at  the  present  day  any  man 
on  earth  may  have  any  girl  he  chooses,  if  he  only  takes  the 
trouble  to  set  about  the  preliminaries  properly.  Women  at 
present  are  a  drug  in  the  market.    Girls  without  monoy  you 


HI 


\   fc'7^^-'^^'" 


^"l5^r',T»N;:i^-/«-,^'^^l 


'"T^^JV*-- 


VMS    TXNTS    nw    SHSM 


mhj  b*<rci  for  the  asking  ;  girls  with  monej,  or  with  expeotatlona 
of  money,  you  may  have  by  appruaulini^'  thorn  in  a  propur  apirit 
from  the  side  of  the  emotions.  //  J'aut  lew  fair$  la  cow  hien 
>'ntfn</u — and  that,  I  admit,  is  a  d^^ading  mode  of  exercise — 
i)ut  v\hen  the  money  can  bo  had  on  no  other  condition,  the  wise 
man  will  not  disdain  even  that  last  unpleasant  one.  He  will 
stoop  to  conquer ;  and  then,  having  once  secured  what  are 
popularly  known  as  the  girl's  afifections,  he'll  take  care  that  the 
settlements,  which  form  the  kernel  of  the  whole  transaction, 
should  not  be  drawn  up  too  stringently  in  the  lady's  favour. 
Those  are  my  sentirueiita  on  the  matrimonial  position."  And 
Harold  Knyvett,  having  thus  delivered  himself  on  his  social 
views,  rose  from  his  chair  with  the  resolute  manner  of  a  man 
who  knows  his  one  mind  to  the  bottom,  and  buried  his  hands 
deep  in  his  trousers  pockets. 

"  However,"  he  went  on,  after  a  brief  pause,  during  part  of 
which  he  had  been  engaged  in  selecting  a  really  good  cigar  with 
deliberate  care  from  the  box  a  club  servant  had  brought  in  to  his 
order,  *•  I  don't  anticipate  any  such  misfortune  as  that,  I'm  happy 
to  say,  I've  very  little  doubt  Sir  Arthur,  sellish  pig  though  he  is, 
will  do  the  right  thing  in  the  end  before  he  kicks  the  bucket.  1 
rejoice  to  say  he's  a  man  with  a  conscience.  You  see,  when  he 
first  came  into  the  property,  he  made  a  will,  a  most  disgusting 
will,  which  he  left  with  his  solicitors,  and  the  concents  of  which 
are  perfectly  well  known  to  me,'  through  the  kind  intervention  of 
Sir  Arthur's  valet — as  a  principle  in  life,  always  cultivate  yom- 
rich  uncle's  valet ;  it  can  do  you  no  harm,  a  -J  may  be  of  infinite 
use  to  you  ;  a  guinea  or  two  bestowed  in  judicious  tips,  in  that 
particular  quarter,  may  be  regarded  in  the  light  of  a  lucrative 
long  investment." 

"  A  quid  pro  qiw,"  his  friend  suggested,  jocosely,  emphasising 
the  *'  quid  "  with  a  facetious  stress,  after  the  manner  of  that 
most  objectionable  animal,  the  common  punster. 

Harold  Knyvett  winced,  but  he  smiled  for  all  *hpl/,  or  pre- 
tended to  smile.    Always  smile  when  you  see  its  expected  of  you. 
As  a  man  of  taste,  he  detested  puns,  especially  old  ones  •  '' 
native  politeness,  of  which  he  possessed  a  large  stock-  *  he    ;rvilt 
politeness  of  all  mean  natures — made  him  carefu'  ugh  at 

them,  however  outrageous  or  however  antiquated.  i.*recisely 
80,"  he  made  answer.  ••  A  quid  pro  quo,''  without  t:  ^mpl  sis. 
"  Well,  by  this  beastly  will,  ho  gives  and  bequeaths  ais  1  nded 
estate  and  his  entire  fortune,  save  and  except  his  own  paltry 
Bayings  from  his  military  pay,  to  my  cousin,  the  root-grubber, 


f^^'lK 


^^m 


wm^^fmsn^ 


9^^m 


T'Wm 


«  BB    TSNTg   OF   tHBII. 


71 


rviic 
h  at 
ecisely 
sis. 
nded 
paltry 
libber, 


the  Greek  root-grubber  on  no  better  ground,  if  you  plwiee,  than 
jnst  because  my  gran dfa  tin !r  the  admiral,  out  of  the  pure  vindic- 
tivenesa  of  his  nasty  tiinpur,  desired  him,  hy  implication,  so  to 
leave  it.  My  grandfatlip:,  you  know — a  most  uniuitural  person — 
bad  a  grudge  againsi  my  father,  his  own  youngest  son,  and 
expressly  ex-.ludecl  hvoi,  by  the  terms  of  his  will,  from  all  rever- 
sionary interest  in  the  propo'-ty." 

"Bad-blooded  old  gent'eman  I "  the  gympathetio  listener 
piously  ejaculated. 

•♦  Extremely,"  Harold  went  n  ,  with  a  smile  that  showed  his 
iven  row  of  white  transparent  tectli.  ''A  worse-blooded  old 
:;entleman,  indeed,  never  lived,  for,  not  only  did  he  cut  off  my 
father  with  a  shiUing,  an  act  wliich  I  could,  perhaps,  have 
endured  with  equanimity,  but  he  cut  me  too  out  of  all  benoiit  of 
succession — me,  a  babe  unborn  (at  the  time  I  am  speaking  of), 
who  had  never  done  anything  on  earth,  good  or  bad,  to  offend 
him.  Such  mean  vindictiveness  positively  disgusts  me.  But 
the  will  was  badly  drawn  up,  it  appears,  and  so  the  wicked  old 
man,  by  his  own  mistake,  made  the  grievous  error  of  leaving  Sir 
Arthur — alone,  of  all  his  sons— tlirou<,'li  an  omitted  phrase,  the 
power  of  appointment.  Now,  Sir  Arthur,  at  the  time  he  came 
into  the  property,  had  seen  practically  nothing  of  either  my 
cousin  Iris,  the  root-grubber,  or  myself — been  away  in  Indiahalf 
his  life,  you  see,  and  knew  neither  »///  good  points  nor  her  weak 
ones.  The  consequence  was,  influoiicod  by  the  bad  old  man's 
expressed  wishes,  he  drew  up  a  will  at  once — the  ill-advised  will 
I've  already  described  to  you  —  cutting  me  off  with  a  few 
wretched  thousands  of  personal  estates,  but  leaving  the  bulk  of 
the  landed  property  absolutely  to  Iris." 

••  And  that  will  he  means  to  stick  to  ? "  the  sympathetic 
listener  enquired  politely. 

"  I  hope  not,"  Harold  Knyvett  replied,  with  a  glance  at  his 
ash.  *•  You  see,  the  other  side  played  their  cards  badly.  This 
girl  Iris  has  a  meddling  old  busybody  of  an  uncle — you  know 
liim  by  name  ;  Whitmarsh,  Q.C.,  the  man  who  muddles  all  th«' 
famous  Probate  cases.  Wei',  this  old  fool  of  a  man  Whitmarsh, 
Ignorant  of  the  fact  that  hir  Aioli'if  had  made  such  a  will 
already,  began  to  bully  and  badger  my  uncie  Ix*  Ms  vulgar  fashion, 
by  insinuating  to  him  privately  that  he'd  bettor  not  leave  the 
property  to  me,  or  else  he'd  find  a  good  case  made  out  against 
aim  on  the  strength  of  the  Admiral's  express  disapprobation. 
Naturally,  that  put  Sir  Arthur's  back  up.  Nobody,  and  espe- 
c.iilly  not  a  peppery  old  General  who's  served  more  than  half 


n 


THE    T£NTS  OF   BHEM. 


his  life  in  India,  likea  to  have  it  dictated  to  him  by  rank  out 
siders  what  disposition  he's  to  make  of  his  own  money.  I  wan 
wiser  than  that.  I  did'nt  try  bullying  ;  I  tried  soft  sawder.  1 
approached  Sir  Arthur,  as  I  approach  the  young  woman,  from 
the  side  of  the  affections.  Then  Iris  herself,  again,  instead  of 
assiduously  captivating  the  old  gentleman,  as  any  girl  with,  a 
grain  of  commor.  sense  would,  of  course,  have  tried  to  do,  posi- 
tively neglecter!  him  for  something  she  calls  the  higher  culture, 
and,  immersed  in  her  Hellenic  agricultural  operations,  dug  roots 
exclusively,  when  she  might  rather  have  been  sedulously  water- 
ing and  nursing  her  relations  with  Sir  Arthur." 

"  Thought  more  of  her  Odyssey  tlian  of  her  uncle,  I  suppose. 
That  was  lucky  for  you,  Knyvett ;  for,  by  Jove,  she'':  a  pretty 
girl,  you  know,  and  agreeable  into  the  bargain.  If  she'd  chosen 
to  make  up  to  him,  I  expect  your  chances  would  have  been 
shaky.'* 

"  You  say  the  truth,  my  dear  boy.  It  was  lucky  for  me.  I 
admit  it  frankly.  But  I,  who  always  play  my  cards  carefully, 
have  taken  great  pains  to  eliminate  luck.  I've  visited  the  old 
gentleman  every  blessed  year  witli  recurrent  regularity  at  his 
summer  quarters  at  Aix-les-Bains,  much  to  my  own  personal  dis- 
comfort, for  he's  a  selfish  old  epicure,  and  I  hate  selfishness  ;  but 
the  end,  of  course,  justified  the  means  ;  and  I  think  I've  made 
it  pretty  safe  by  this  time  that  he  either  has  drawn  up,  or  is 
about  to  draw  up,  a  new  and  more  sensible  will  in  my  favour. 
As  a  matter  of  conscience,  he's  sure  to  see  to  it.  I  shall  snap 
my  fingers  then  at  the  man  whitmarsh.  And,  indeed,  it'd  be  a 
pity,  when  one  comes  to  think  of  it,  that  a  Quixotic  impulsive 
girl  like  Iris  should  have  the  sole  management  of  all  that 
splendid  property.  She's  like  all  tlie  learned  ladies  ;  she's  quite 
unpractical.  1  met  her  last  week  at  a  garden  party  at  Staines 
(where  I  was  very  attentive  to  her,  of  course,  just  to  keep  my 
hand  in) ;  and  what  do  you  think  the  girl  actually  told  me  ? 
She's  going  to  train  as  a  hospital  nurse.  Her  uncle,  old  Whit- 
marsh— who,  though  a  meddling  old  fool,  is  a  man  of  the  world, 
one  can't  deny — did  his  best  to  dissuade  her  from  it;  but  she 
wouldn't  be  dissuaded.  She  wanted  to  do  some  good  in  her 
generation  I  Utopian,  quite  1  It'd  never  do  for  her  to  come 
into  the  property  !  " 

*'  If  I  were  you,"  the  sympathetic  friend  responded,  sugges- 
tively, *'  I'd  make  haste  all  the  same  to  assure  myself  as  a  fact  that 
Sir  Arthur  had  really  altered  the  will.  Testamentary  dispositions 
are  ticklish  Things.     Men  put  them  off  so,  from  day  to  day,  espe- 


inn  TENTS  or  aUKil. 


78 


inilv  at  his  time  of  life,  you  know.  He  mit^lit  die  nnv  mnming, 
)ui  o:  pure  misuJLiiei',  aiid  leave  you  in  the  lurch,  and  your  cousin 
.n  clover." 

"  That  contingency,  unfortunately,"  Harold  replied,  with  a 
^igL,  "  it'8  impossible  for  the  wisest  of  men  to  guard  against. 
>ut  I've  hedged  even  so;  I've  made  my  book  cautiously.  It 
ccurred  to  me  to  pay  marked  attention  beforehand  to  my  cousin 
'ris,  who's  a  pretty  girl  after  all,  and  not  insensible,  I  fancy,  in 
spite  of  her  Aristotle,  to  a  man's  advances  ;  and  I  mean  to  get 
ip  an  informal  engagement  with  her,  of  a  non -committing 
•harucier,  you  see,  of  a  non-committing  character  ;  so  that  if  by 
accident  she  should  come  into  the  money  (which  heaven  forbid), 
I  can  aimex  the  property  that  way,  girl  and  all  inchided  ;  and 
if,  on  the  other  hand,  all  goes  well,  I  can  shuffle  out  of  it  quietly 
by  letting  the  thing  die  a  natural  death,  and  come  into  the 
estate  wholly  unencumbered." 

"  That's  neat  and  cute  of  you,"  his  hearer  responded,  a  little 
lubiously  ;  but  perhaps  a  trifle  too  sharp  for  most  ine«'B  fancy," 

Hai'old  Knyvett's  reply  was  suddenly  cut  short  by  the  entr} 
jf  a  boy  in  buttons  with  a  telegram.  "  For  you,  sir,"  he  said, 
handing  him  tlie  flimsy  pink  paper  on  a  tray.  Harold  took  it 
and  tore  open  the  envelope  carelessly.  An  invit.itioii  for  a  day 
on  the  moors,  no  doubt ;  or  an  urgent  request  from  the  editor 
of  the  PirafiUllii  Review  for  a  hasty  notice  of  that  forthooining 
work  of  Kekewich's  on  the  "  blavonic  hlement  m  the  iJaikan 
Peninsula." 

X  As  he  read  it,  his  face  turned  white  with  mingled  dir,appoint- 
ment,  rage,  and  impoterice.  "What's  up?"  his  friend  asked, 
scentinj^  fnihire  on  the  breeze. 

"  Why  this,"  Harold  answered,  as  he  haiul'Ml  him  the 
trum))ery  liule  crumpled  sci'apof  Government  ecuhoaiy.  "  From 
my  uncle's  valet.     The  fruit  of  my  investment." 

The  friend  read  it  mechanically  aloud.  **  Sir  Arthur  rliod  at 
two  this  al'ternoon,  at  his  residence  at  Aix,  quitf  suddenly,  of 
an</tnn  peitoris.  I  have  searched  his  papf!rs  up  and  down,  but  can 
find  no  trace  of  any  other  will  than  the  one  now  in  the  hands  of 
his  solicitors.     Your  obedient  servant,  Gilhert  Mo.ntgomeiiy. 

A  crushing  blow  I     The  cards  had  failed  him  I 

It  was  a  minute  or  two  before  Harold  Knyvett  recovered  his 
usual  presence  of  mind  after  that  deadly  reverse.  Dead,  and 
with  no  other  will  yet  made  !  Dead,  with  no  cliance  of  inllu- 
eucm^   his  decmioail    Dead,  bufgrt)  Utt  had  t^vuu  ^ru^juiied  to 


74 


Tu  tmxnm  w  ihim. 


Iris  I  To  ask  her  now  woald  be  too  open  and  wxiblQfhinff  a  eoxi> 
lession  of  furtuna- hunting.  Proorastination  had  lost  him  both 
aaiices  at  onoe,  his  unoie'i  proorasti nation  in  the  one  case,  his 
>\vn  in  the  other.  If  only  he  had  proposed  a  week  since  at  that 
garden  party  at  Staines  I  Fool,  foul  that  he  wasi  to  ie6  the  oppor- 
tunity sUp  idly  by  him  I 

It  was  only  for  a  moment,  however.  Next  minute,  strategy 
had  resumed  the  command.  Vein  regret  was  very  little  in 
Harold  Knyvctt's  line.  Like  a  strong  man,  he  nerved  himself 
after  his  defeat,  and  proceeded  to  bring  up  his  reserves  for  action. 
He  looked  at  his  watch.  The  hand  was  on  the  very  nick  of  five. 
News  of  Sir  Arthur's  death  wouldn't  get  into  even  the  last  edition 
of  this  evening's  papers.  Iris  would  therefore  not  probably  hear 
of  it  all  to-morrow  morning,  No  more  procrastination  ;  no 
more  c.elay.  The  last  moment  for  the  forlorn  hope  had  now 
arrived.  If  he  took  his  pretty  cousin  by  storm  to-night,  all 
might  yet  be  well,  and  the  estate  micjht  be  secured,  even  though 
burdened  with  the  undesirable  encumbrance. 

Harold  Knyvett  was  not  a  marrying  man  ;  but  if  the  worst 
came  to  the  worst,  ha  reflected  with  a  sigh,  a  man  might  marry 
a  plainer  girl  than  his  cousin  Iris. 

He  had  an  engagement  with  his  superior  in  the  oflBoe  at  seven, 
to  dine  at  his  club,  worse  luck,  and  he  dared  not  neglect  it. 
Cautious  before  all  things,  Harold  Knyvett  would  never  throw 
away  the  substance  for  the  shadow.  The  office  was  a  certainty  ; 
Iris  was  a  chance.  No  gambler  he ;  he  would  stick  to  his 
enfjagement.  But  he  could  go  away  early,  thank  heaven — say  at 
9.80,  or  thereabouts  (pleading  an  At  Home) — and  be  up  at  his 
aunt's  before  the  clock  struck  ten.  Filled  with  the  scheme,  he 
ruslied  to  the  door  and  hailed  in  all  haste  a  passing  hausoin.  It 
took  him  to  his  chambers  in  less  than  ten  minutes.  Then  he 
sat  down  at  his  old  oak  desk  and  wrote  at  full  speed  two  hurried 
letters.  The  first  was  to  the  heiress ;  **  A  most  judicious  step," 
he  said  to  himself  with  a  chuckle. 

t 

"  M?   DEAB    Inis, » 

••  I  am  very  particularly  anxious  to  Ftr^A  yon  ihU  evenir;' 
about  ten  o'clock  on  a  matter  of  some  eerimis  iinpurtiiuce  to  both 
of  113  alike.  Yon  are  always  kindness  itself  to  me,  I  know. 
May  I  ask  you,  if  possible,  as  the  best  and  sweetest  of  cousins, 
not  to  go  out  at  all  to-niglit,  or,  in  case  you  have  an  engnf^eraent 
for  the  evening  to  come  home  again  early,  so  tliat  I  may  manage 


THK    TKNT8    OF    aOKM 


•76 


u.  hnve  ten  minutea*  talk  ^vith  you  alone  ?     I  know  you'll  do  this 
w    me.  lik«  ft  dear  good  girl.     With  much  love,  in  breatlilest: 
sia, 

•*  Your  very  affectionate  cousin, 

Harold. 

The  second  was  a  hasty  note  to  his  solicitor. 

•  Deab  Hardt, — 

.  "  The  old  man  has  popped  off  the  hooks  this  afternoon  at 

.\,  and,  as  far  as  I  can  make  out,  has  neglected  to  draw  up  au} 

her  will  than  the  one  I  told  you  of.     This  is   beastly.     We 

iust  resist  all  probate  of  the  existing  document  to  the  utmost  ol 

ur  power.     I'll  see  you  upon  the  subject  to-morrow  morning. 

,  lean  while,  look  over  my  grandfather's  will — you  have  a  copy, 

i  believe — and  take  all  necessary  steps  immediately  to  prevent 

I  surprise  by  the  other  party.         ••  Yours,  in  hot  haste, 

*•  Harold  Knyvett." 

Then,  being  nothing  if  not  a  methodical  man,  Mr.  Harold 
I^vnyvett  proceeded  to  put  both  letters,  out  of  pure  force  of  habit, 
')  copy  in  his  copying  press — the  sohci tor's  first,  and  Iris's  after- 
wards. A  copy  is  always  a  handy  thing  ;  you  can  produce  it 
vhen  necessary,  and  suppress  it  when  inconvenient.  That  done, 
le  rang  the  bell  for  his  servant. 

"  Send  those  at  once  to  their  addresses  by  a  commissionaire," 
le  said  abruptly.  "  Let  him  take  a  cab.  At  Miss  Knyvett's  I 
^,.\ifiJA  like  him  to  wait  for  an  uiiswef." 


N     ■ 


/a 


tsM  tMMU  tf  »nm,* 


CHAPTER  XL 


WMWM  FROM  AH. 

Abottt  ft§  tmm9  ttnae,  that  identical  afterno«f!,  TTncl«  Tom 
arrived  by  liansom,  verv  red-faced,  at  Mrs.  Knyvett  h  houBe  in 
West  Kensington.  Great  tr^idaftion  nossos.sed  his  soul,  and  an 
open  telegram  fluttered  ostoniatiously  in  kis  left  hand.  "  Galrn 
yourself,  my  dear, '  he  remarked,  with  sondry  pofli  and  blows, 
to  Iria,  wbo,  indeed,  had  only  just  come  in  from  tenuis,  and 
seemed  to  the  eye  of  a  mere  casual  observer  as  calm  as  any  Thir'? 
Classic  ought  always  to  be  ;  *•  don't  be  too  agitated,  thtTw'p 
nothing  to  alarm  you.  I've  brought  you  news — most  important 
news.  Your  uncle,  Sir  Arthur,  died  at  Aix-les-Bains  at  two 
this  afternoon,  of  amjina  pectoris." 

"  Well,  really.  Uncle  Tom,"  Iris  answered,  with  a  smile, 
throwing  her  pretty  lutle  arms  caressingly  around  him,  *"  I  sup- 
pose, of  course,  I  ouglit  to  be  awfully  sorry  ;  he's  papa's  hi'othor 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing  ;  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  hai'iJJy 
remember  seeing  him  when  I  was  quite  a  bnby,  and  hnvir'^ 
always  regarded  him  only  as  one  of  the  family  portraits,  I  do.rt 
feel  as  if  I  could  screw  up  even  a  convyntionaJ  tear  now  lo 
lament  his  demise  with." 

'•  Sorry  I  "  Uncle  Tom  exclaimed,  in  a  fervour  of  astonisil»'  ■   ' 
"Why,  you  ouL;ht  to  he    lielij^hted  I    overjoyed  I   irreprossihh  I 
Sorry  at  ccnnng  in  to  six  thousand   a  year,  indeed  I     Why,  tht ' 
girl's  gone  cracked  I     I'll  trouble  you  for  her  calmness  I     Son}, 
indeed  I     Sorry  I  " 

At  the  words,  Mrs.  Knyvett,  who  was  standing  by,  fell  back  in 
her  chair,  with  lier  mam  aquiline  fcatuie  [JOintcd  sti-ai^'ht  tovvardt" 
the  rose  in  the  centre  of  the  ceiling,  and  iiKhilgod  parenthetically 
in  a  loud  fit  of  mingled  hysterical  sobs  and  laughter.  If  IriiH 
was  insensible  to  her  own  good  fortune,  Mrs.  Knyvett,  at  least, 
as  an  irreproachable  British  mother,  felt  bound  to  rise  vicitnoUHly 
on  her  account  to  tha  height  of  the  situation.  But  as  soon  as 
this  httle  interrupt  n  had  been  partially  compcjsed,  according  to 
iue  precedent  ')y  the  app'  ■•'''<ti  of  sal.  voUitilf  m\(]  f<ni  ili>  ( 'oloijuf, 
Incle  Tom  wa^  enableil  ti-  ,>  "  I'tid  more  aysLem.iUcaiiy  vvitlj  hil 
>>  ".poaiUon  oi  th«  eiiuuu^  oribik. 


;'  '?^yR,-i'^K-«c*^  . 


THK   TENTS   OF   8HXM. 


77 


••  Now  calm  yourself,  my  dear,"  the  fat  little  old  gerttleman 
'egan  aji^ain,  with  much  energy,  being,  in  fact,  very  far  from 
aim  himself,  and  therefore,  like  many  other  people  in  the^ame 
ircumstances,  particularly  anxious  to  quiet  the  nerves  of  other 
K'ople.     "Here's  the  telegram  I've  just  received  from  Savoy: — 

'•  •  Sir  Arthur  died  at  two  tliis  afternoon,  at  his  residence  at 
\ix,  quite  suddenly,  of  anrfina  prcUins.  I  have  searched  his 
papers  up  and  down,  but  can  find  no  trace  of  any  other  will 
Uian  the  one  now  in  the  hands  of  his  sohcitor. 

Your  obedient  servant, 

'*  *  Gilbert  Montgomery.'  " 

U  was   word   for  word   the  self-same    telegram  that   Harold 

lyvett  had  received  at  the  Cheyene  Row  Club ;  but  of  that 
•tie  peculiarity  in  its  duplicate  form  Uncle  Tom,  of  coui'se,  was 
s  yet  unaware. 

"  He's  a  treasure,  that  valet,'  he  murmured  to  himself,  with 
•  hug  of  delight.  "  Behaved  inDst  admirably.  Never  expended 
'■n  pounds  in  my  life  to  better  -advantage  I  " 

'*  But  why  does  he  telegr<r^n  to  you,  Uncle  dear  ?  "  Iris  asked, 
luch  puz/.led. 

"  Well,  the  fact  is,  my  child,"  the  old  barrister  answered,  with 
.  .somewhat  shame-faced  look,  for  he  felt  he  must  confess  the  one 
in  of  an  otherwise  blameless  life  openly,  "  in  any  other  cr.se  I 
Nouldn't  have  descended  to  obtaining  information  from  any  otlier 
nan's  servants,  by  fair  means  or  foul,  but  in  dealing  with  gi 
scoundrel  of  the  cahbre  and  metal  of  Harold  Knvveit " 

'•  Uncle  !"  Iris  cried,  firing  up,  "you've  no  right  to  preivTidge 
lim  I  You've  no  right  to  speak  so  of  any  of  my  relations! 
You've  no  right  to  call  my  cousin  a  scoundrel." 

"  Exactly  so,  my  dear,"  the  old  man  went  on  in  a  pleased  tone. 
•'  I  like  you  none  the  worse  for  withstanding  me  to  my  face,  as 
Paul  did  somebody,  and  sticking  up  for  your  relative,  though  he 
loes  happen  to  be  a  sneak  and  a  cur  and  a  bully  ;  but,  at  any 
rate,  in  dealing  with  a  claim  like  his  (if  that  phrase  will  satisfy 
you)  I  thought  it  best  to  ensure  beforehand  prior  and  exclusive 
information  of  my  own  from  your  uncle's  body-servant ;  so  that 
:lie  moment  Sir  Arthur  was  comfortably  dead,  and  past  the  pos- 
sibility of  meddling  with  his  lasu  will  and  testament,  we  might 
-iec.ire  ourselves  at  once  against  Harold's  machinations.  Tha4 
fellow  'd  stick  at  nothing,  I  can  tell  you,  my  child.  He's  a  bad 
lot.  Why,  he'd  forge  a  will,  I  know,  if  he  saw  no  other  way  of 
getting  ^hat  he  wanted,  as  soon  as  look  at  you." 


'1'?  .T nr>7' v;v" ;.  •-»  ■-  ^  t, 


78 


THX    TENTS   OF-  SU£U. 


••  Uncle  I  "  Iris  exclaimed  again,  severely  ;  and  the  old  gent,!.  ' 
man  at  onoe  assumed  a  penitent  attitude. 

•*  Well,  lie's  dead,  anyhow,"  Uncle  Tom  went  on,  with  profes 
sional  glee  ;  "  and  it's  pretty  sure  now  he's  made  no  will  but  th 
one  we  know  about.     iSo,  Iris,  the  position  amounts  to  this  — 
you're  the  mistress  of  six  thousand  a  year — a  great  fortune,  m; 
dear  I     A  very  great  fortune  1  " 

I  hope  I  may  be  able  to  spend  it  wisely  for  the  good  of  tin 
world,"  Iris  answered,  with  a  sigh. 

She  was  a  trilie  pale,  but  otherwise  seemed  about  as  calm  a  • 
usual.     Her  caliniuss  irritated  Mrs.  Knyvett  inexpressibly. 

"  For  goodness  sake,  Iris,"  she  exclaimed,  getting  up  a. 
though  she'd  like  to  shake  her,  •*  do  laugh,  or  cry,  or  scream,  oi 
do  something  just  to  show  you  understand  the  importance  o 
your  position.  I  never  hi  my  life  knew  such  a  girl  as  you  ari  * 
When  the  Cambridge  local  or  something  else  was  going  to  b> 
announced  the  other  day,  you  were  as  white  as  death  and  a- 
agitated  as — as  a  jelly ;  and  now  that  you've  come  in  to  siN 
thousand  a-year  you're  as  calm  over  that  good  fortune  as  if  si  . 
thousand  a-year  were  a  kind  of  an  accident  that  dropped  in  upo. 
one  daily  I  "  .      •      •      . 

"  But  the  examination  was  so  much  more  important  to  me,'' 
Iris  answered  gently,  stroking  her  mother's  hair,  to  prevent 
another  sudden  outburst  of  sobbing  and  laughing.  ♦'  I  did  thai 
myself,  you  see,  by  my  own  exertions ;  whereas  this  is  a  sort  oi 
adventitious  external  circumstance^  It's  not  what  one  has,  s  > 
much  as  what  one  is,  that  matters.^ .  .  .  Besides,  the  ques 
tion's  really  this  :  oughtn't  Harold  to  have  at  least  as  much  as  1 
have  ?  " 

•*  God  bless  my  soul,  why  ?  "  Uncle  Tom  exclaimed,  in  extreme 
astonishment. 

'•  Because,  you  know,  we  were  both  equally  related  tc  Sir 
Arthur  by  birth  ;  and  I  should  have  felt  it  an  injustice  to  mysell 
if  Sir  Arthur  Lad  left  everything  to  Harold  and  nothing  to  me. 
It  would  be  a  manifest  inequality  ;  and  as  Aristotle  says,  in  the 
'  Nicomachean  Ethics,'  equality  is  justice."  '  , 

'•  But  the  law,  my  child,"  Uncle  Tom  exclaimed,  aghast — 
"  the  law  of  the  land — the  law  allows  it.  *  Perfect  freedoicn  of 
testamentary  disposition,'  Blackstone  remarks,  '  is  the  key-bcone 
of  the  English  law  of  bequest  and  inheritance.'  " 

••It  may  be  law,"  Iris  made  answer  unabashed}  •' but  is  it 
right,  is  it  justice  ?  " 

Uncle  Tom's  hair  stood  on  end  with  alarm  at  the  heretical 


»■*: 


THB    TINTS    OP    SHXM. 


79 


[Uiistion.     A  lawyer  wlio  had  spent  the  best  part  of  hii  lift  in 
)leadiiig  probate  cases  to  be  set  sucli  a  problem  ! 

••  They're  the  same  thing,  my  dear,"  he  made  answer,  gasping, 
•'  the  self-same  thing  uiidor  two  different  aspects.  The  law 
lefmes  and  expresses  clearly  what  is  right  and  proper  for  a  man 
Lo  do  in  each  particular  instance  ;  it  lays  down  the  strict  prin- 
ciples of  individual  justice." 

"  Herbert  Spencer  thinks,"  the  Third  Classic  went  on,  undis- 
mayed by  his  evident  outburst  of  horror,  "  that  law  is  merely 
the  brute  expression  of  the  will  of  a  real  or  practical  jnajority — 
generally  a  dead  majority  :  often  an  ignorant  and  prejudiced 
medijBval  majority.     He  holds,  in  fact,  that  law  in  its  essence — " 

♦•  Heaven  bless  the  girl  I  "  Uncle  Tom  exclaimed,  stopping 
both  his  ears  with  his  hands  vigorously.  *'  If  she  isn't  going  to 
lecture  me  on  Political  Economy  I  Why,  haven't  I  already 
explained  to  you,  miss,  fliat  you  may  do  anything  on  earth  with 
me,  except  two  things — bandage  my  legs,  and  give  me  lectures  on 
Political  Economy.  I  desire  to  live  and  die  a  humble  Christian, 
in  complete  ignorance  of  that  hard-hearted  science.  Let's  return 
to  our  muttons.     Let  me  see,  where  were  we  ?  " 

"  I  was  saying,"  Iris  went  on,  in  her  quiet  firm  way,  "  that  1 
thought  I  ought  to  share  this'  fortune  with  Harold,  who  seems 
to  me  to  have  quite  equal  claims  to  it  with  myself,  uncle." 

Uncle  Tom's  wrath  seethed  up  rapidly  to  boiling  point. 
♦  With  Harold  I  "  ho  cried  out  in  an  agony  of  disgust.  •'  With 
that  sneak  I  with  that  cur  1  with  that  incarnation  of  selfishness  ! 
Upon  my  soul,  my  dear,  if  you  were  to  do  such  a  quixotic  thing 
as  that,  as  long  as  I  lived  I  should  never  speak  another  word  to 
you." 

*♦  I  should  be  very  sorry  for  that,"  Iris  answered,  with  a  smile 
— "  at  least  if  I  believed  it ;  more  sorry  than  for  anything  else  I 
vjould  think  of  on  earth  ;  for  I  love  you  dearly ;  but  if  I  thought 
t  right,  whether  you  meant  it  or  not,  I  should  have  to  do  it." 

'•  iris  ! "  her  mother  exclaimed,  with  a  severe  curve  of  the 
principal  feature,  '*  how  on  earth  can  you  talk  in  such  a  way 
:o  your  uncle  1  And  after  his  unremitting  kindness  to  you 
always  I  " 

"  We  must  first  of  all  obey  our  consciences,  mother,"  Iris 
replied  gravely.     "  Fitft  jmtitio,  you  know,  nuit  ccelum." 

What  end  this  discussion  of  first  principles  might  have  reached 
l)etween  disputants  so  utterly  without  common  premises  it 
NOiild  be  hard  to  say,  had  not  a  diversion  been  suddenly  effected 


!i 


jHfmmt^^ 


^^m^ 


TV 


60 


THK   TENTS   OF   BHBIC. 


by  the  entrance  of  the  maid  with  a  note   for  Miss  Knyvett 
"  And  the  messenger's  waiting  in  an  'ansom  for  the  answer. 

miss." 

Iris  read  it  through  with  some  slight  misgiving.  ••  From 
Harold,"  she  said  shortly,  and  handed  it  to  her  uncle. 

The  barrister  drew  a  long  breath  as  he  glanced  at  it  angrily. 

••  Too  affectionate  by  half  I  "  he  cried.  '*  •  The  best  and 
sweek'St  of  cousins  I  '  'In  breathless  haste  ! '  He's  hedging, 
now.  lie's  got  whid  of  this,  too,  and  he's  going  to  propose  to 
you.     The  scamp  I  the  skunk  I  the  disgusting  vermin  !  " 

Iris  was  too  charita'ole  to  believe  it  true  without  maturer  evi 
dence.  **  We  must  wait  and  see,"  she  said ;  •*  I  don't  want  t( 
prejudge  him." 

♦'  It's  true,"  Uncle  Tom  went  on,  with  ri.sing  indignation  ;  "  i 
see  through  the  cur.  There's  been  double-deaUng  here.  Thai 
scoundrel  of  a  valet  has  taken  pay  from  l)Oth  of  us  alike,  and  sent 
us  both  an  identical  telegram.  Harold  knows  he's  cut  off  with 
out  apneal,  and  he  wants  to  propose  to  you  before  you  get  thv 
news  and  know  what  he's  driving  at." 

•*  I  hope  not,"  Ins  cried,  Hushing  up  with  shame  at  the  mere 
suggestion. 

Uncle  Tom  was  turning  over  the  letter  curiously.  ••  Why, 
God  bless  my  soul,"  he  exclaimed  with  a  start,  "what's  this 
upon  the  fly-leaf?  What  extraordinary  marks  I  They  look  for 
all  the  world  like  the  reverse  of  a  letter."  And  he  sat  down  to 
examine  them  with  the  close  and  patient  scruLmj  of  aoi  old  haad 
in  the  Fruuaie  auu  Divuiue  JDivi^^iiOii. 


'm- 


^^WB 


tn%  TENTS 


M. 


61 


CHAPTER  XII. 


CHECKMATE. 

A.  l.-.n  o'clock,  M  Iria  fingered  the  panio  in  the  (h-awinrr-room 
alone  (by  special  arrangement),  a  rat-tat  at  the  door,  loud  but 
decorous,  announced  her  cousin  Harold's  arrival.  Iris's  heart 
beat  quickly  for  a  minute ;  it  was  an  ordeal  to  have  to  see  him 
on  such  an  errand  alone,  but  she  liad  made  her  mind  up  to  learn 
the  whole  truth,  cost  what  it  might,  and  she  would  go  through 
wit!  it  now  to  the  bitter  end  at  all  hazards.  A  frail  little  thing 
en  Lue  bodily  side,  she  was  by  no  means  wanting  in  moral  cour- 
age ;  and  here  was  an  opportunity,  a  hateful  opportunity,  all 
ready  to  hand  for  testing  her  self-confidence. 

As  for  Harold,  he  came  up  in  evening  dress,  and  in  excellent 
spirits ;  after  all,  it  was  only  a  temporary  check  ;  he  would 
marry  the  fortune  if  he  couldn't  inherit  it.  Any  man  nowadays 
can  select  his  girl,  and  make  tolerably  sure  of  her,  with  a  little 
attention  !  It's  only  a  matter  of  casting  your  fly  well.  lie  wore 
a  cream-coloured  rose,  with  maidenhair,  in  his  button -hole ;  his 
shirt  front  was  faultless,  and  his  white  tie  of  the  most  immacu- 
late neatness.  Women  attach  some  importance  to  these  tritios, 
you  know,  even  though  they  happen  to  be  Third  Classics  ;  and 
Harold  Knyvett  was  well  aware  that  his  teeth  were  pearly,  and 
his  eyes  cold  blue,  and  his  moustache  the  envy  of  the  entire 
Civil  Service.  He  entered  with  a  look  intended  to  be  aiinoit 
rapturous. 

•'  How  gor  J  of  you,  Ins,"  he  cried,  as  he  kissed,  her,  though 
his  cousin  shrank  away  somewhat  timidly  from  that  doubtful  kiss. 
'•  I  see  you  understood  me  !  That  was  ever  so  nice  of  you.  And 
alone,  too  1  This  is  more  than  I  could  have  asked  1  What  rare 
good  fortune  1     I  hardly  expected  to  find  you  alone  here." 

"  Mamnja  had  a  headache,"  iris  answered,  with  truth,  for  the 
si  lock  and  the  hysteria  had  proved  too  much  for  the  possessor  oi 
the  aristocratic  feature;  "  so  she  went  to  bed  early.  What  did 
you  want  to  see  me  about,  Harold  ?  Has  anything  unusuai 
turned  up  since  I  saw  you  ?  "  . 


82 


THE    TENTS   OP    SHEM. 


••  Nothing  uniisiml,  doarcst,"  Harold  went  on,  loaning  forward, 
and  looking  profouiidl)'  m  the  direction  of  her  averted  eyes  ;  '*  hut 
a  feeling  I  have  long  felt  growing  within  me  has  come  to  a  head 
at  last ;  and  this  afternoon  it  hroke  over  me  suddenly,  Hke  a  flash 
of  inspiration,  that  I  could  no  longer  put  o£f  opening  my  whole 
heart  to  you." 

Iris's  hand  tremhled  violently.  She  hated  herself,  she  was  so 
horrihly  guilty  ;  it  was  such  wicked  duplicity  to  let  him  go  on — 
she,  who  knew  all  the  facts  already.  Yet  she  would  play  out  the 
comedy  to  its  natvral  close,  come  what  might  of  it,  for  the  sake. 
of  certainty.  Harold  noted  her  agitation,  and  misread  its  mean- 
ing. "  I've  nobbled  her,"  he  thought  to  himself,  with  a 
triumphant  smile.  "  See  how  her  hand  trembles  I  But  I'll 
play  her  gracefully  a  little  longer.  It's  unsportsmanlike  to  gaff 
your  fish  too  hastily." 

So  he  went  on  once  more,  in  a  soft,  low  tone,  taking  her  hnnd, 
half  unresisted,  in  his  own,  and  playing  with  it  tenderly,  while 
Iris  still  kept  her  face  studiously  averttid. 

"  Iris,  one  thing  that  made  me  think  more  particularly  of  this 
to-day  is  my  strong  desire  there  should  be  no  shadow  of  mer- 
cenary feeling  on  either  side  between  you  and  me,  whose  interests 
should  be  so  identfcal  in  all  things.  Uncle  Arthur's  still  alive. 
While  he  lives  neither  of  us  knows  to  which  of  the  two,  or  in 
what  proportion,  the  dear  old  gentleman  will  leave  his  money. 
Now  I  felt  it  borne  in  upon  me  with  a  sudden  impulse  this  after- 
noon that  it  would  be  better  if,  before  either  of  us  was  thus  put 
in  a  position  of  superiority,  so  to  speak,  in  worldly  goods  over 
the  other,  we  wore  to  let  our  hearts'  secret  out  mutually.     And 

for  that  I've  come  to  see  you  to-night Iris,  1  love  you — 

I've  always  loved  you,  of  course  ;  but  of  late  I've  learnt  what 
my  love  meant.  Dare  I  hope,  darling — ?  "  and  he  raised  her 
hand  tentatively,  but  with  ardour,  towards  his  thin  lips,  and  was 
about  to  print  upon  it  what  seemed  to  him  the  appropriate  warm 
kiss  of  a  devoted  lover. 

Iris,  however,  could  stand  the  strain  of  this  false  position  no 
longer.  Withdrawing  her  hand  suddenly  from  his  with  a  violent 
start,  she  took  slowly  from  her  pocket  i  note  in  her  hand,  and 
began  to  road  some  pencilled  words,  interspersed  with  ink,  on 
the  fly-leaf  of  the  letter.  She  spokr-  them  out  with  a  trembling 
voice,  but  with  great  clearness,  to  this  unexpecLud  purport  :  — 

••  Dear   Hardy, — 

"  The  old  nuin  has  popped  olT  tlie   hooks   tliis   afternoon  at 
Ail,  and,  aa  far  aa  I  can  make  u..i, " 


THS   TSNT8   OV   BHSM. 


63 


She  had  got  no  further,  when  Harolrl,  red  as  fire,  with  a 
8U(l(leii  dart  forward,  triod  to  seize  the  compromising  document 
from  her  hand  ;  but  Iris  was  too  quick  for  him,  and  too  relent- 
less as  well.  She  dashed  the  letter  with  one  hand  behind  her 
back,  then  advancing  to  the  gas,  and  facing  him  full,  she  hold 
it  up  before  him,  and  read  to  the  very  last  line  his  note  to  his 
solicitor.  She  would  let  him  see  she  understood  to  the  full  the 
whole  depth  and  bieadth  of  his  unmanly  baseness. 

Harold  Knyvett,  well-bred  sneak  as  he  was,  stood  and  listened 
shamefaced,  now  white  as  a  ourd  What  could  all  this  mean  ? 
What  error  had  he  committed  ?  He  knew  he  hadn't  blundered 
the  elementary  blunder  of  putting  the  wronj?  letter  by  mistake 
into  iris's  envelope.  His  good  business  habits,  and  his  clock- 
work accuracy  sufficed  to  save  him  from  such  a  puerile  scholar's 
mate  from  a  woman  as  that ;  for  he  always  subscribed  each 
letter  to  its  recipient  at  the  bottom  of  the  page  with  anticjue 
punctiliousness,  and  always  took  care  to  look,  as  he  folded  them, 
that  subscription  and  superscription  tallied  exactly.  All  the 
more,  therefore,  was  he  nonplussed  to  understand  how  Iris  had 
got  hold  of  his  note  to  Hardy.  Could  the  fellow  li.ive  betrayed 
him  ?  Impossible  I  Impossible  I  But  he  stood  there,  with  hia 
face  all  livid  to  behold,  and  his  eyes  fixed  hard  upon  the  pattern 
of  the  carpet,  till  Iris  had  completed  to  the  very  last  word  her 
righteous  torture. 

••  What  does  this  mean.  Iris  ? "  he  asked,  angrily,  as  she 
folded  it  up  with  a  smile  and  replaced  it  in  the  envelope. 

♦'  It  means,"  Iris  answered,  handing  him  over  the  not.  ,  now 

she  had  quite  finished  it,  with  ironical  courtesy,  " that 

you  use  too  thick  and  too  black  a  copying  ink.  I  advise  you  in 
future,  Harold,  to  employ  some  thinner  kind  if  you  wish  to  pre- 
vent a  recurrence  of  this  unfortunate  exposure." 

She  was  white  as  a  sheet  herself,  but  righteous  indignation 
bore  her  through.  The  man  should  know  he  was  detected  and 
unmasked ;  he  should  writhe  for  his  meanness  whatever  it  cost 
her. 

Harold  took  the  note  from  her  hand  and  gazed  at  it  mechani- 
cally. He  saw  now  at  a  glance  the  source  of  all  these  woes. 
The  flyleaf  of  Iris's  letter,  laid  downward  in  tlie  copying-book, 
had  taken  a  faint  and  half-illegible  impression  of  his  note  to 
Hardy  from  the  wet  page  opposite.  In  any  other  hands  than 
Thomas  Kynnersley  Wliitmarsh's,  those  loose,  sjjrawling  daubs 
on  the  blank  sheet  would  no  doubt  have  meant  ratlier  less  than 
nothing.     But  the  distinguished  Q.G.  and  great  authority  on 


1^ 


■■PP" 


64 


THS   TENTS   OF   BHE1I« 


probate  cases  had  seen  too  many  strange  documents  and  forgeries 
in  his  time  not  to  have  become  an  ade[)t  in  handwriting  and  all 
that  appertained  to  it.  No  export  was  sharper  on  a  stroke  or  a 
dot  than  he  ;  the  crossing  of  a  "  t  "  was  enough  to  convict  a 
man  of  sin  before  his  scrutinising  spectacles.  By  holding  up 
the  page  to  the  light  of  the  gas  he  had  been  able  to  supply  with 
dexterous  pencil-strokes  the  missing  portions  of  each  word  or 
letter,  and  to  reconstruct,  entire,  the  compromising  epistle  to 
Mr.  Harold's  solicitor.  So  skilfully  had  he  built  it  all  up,  indeed, 
that  even  Iris  herself  could  no  longer  doubt  her  cousin's  me^n- 
Ui-'ss,  nor  could  Harold,  when  confronted  with  his  own  handiwork, 
thus  unexpectedly  reproduced,  venture  to  deny  or  explain  away 
to  her  face  his  authorsliip  of  the  letter. 

The  ballk'd  schemer  looked  at  Iris  with  cynical  coldness.  He 
had  played  his  cards  altogether  too  well.  *•  Then  it's  all  up," 
he  said  ;  for  he  knew  when  he  was  beaten  ;  ♦*  it's  all  up,  I 
suppose,  between  us  ?  " 

"  Yes,  It's  all  up,"  Iris  answered  coldly  ;  **  and  so  far  as  I  am', 
concerned,  Harold  Knyvett,  I  do  not  further  desire  the  honour  of 
your  acquaintance.     I  tried  to  believe  in  you  as  long  as  I  could, 
though  I  never  liked  you,  and  I  never  cared  for  you  ;  I  can 
believe  in  you  no  longer,  and  I  wish  to  see  no  more  of  you." 

Harold  looked  across  at  her  with  a  cuxl  on  his  lip. 

•'  Your  new-tome  fortune  has  made  you  proud  in  a  hurry,"  he 
-iiieered  out,  aui^rily.  "  Hut  don't  be  too  sure  about  it  y.  b,  my 
lady,  remember,  Sir  Arthur's  title  had  a  flaw  in  it  from  the 
lirst.  What  he  be(jueathed  to  you  was,  perhaps,  from  the  very 
beginning,  not  his  to  bequeath  you." 

**  I'm  not  concerned  at  present  about  Sir  Arthur's  title,"  Iris 
answered,  cold  as  ice,  and  trembling  violently,  but  still  self- 
possessed  ;  '*  I'm  concerned  only  about  your  own  shameful  and 
cynical  duplicity." 

'•  All,  that's  all  very  well  for  you  to  say  just  now,"  Harold 
went  on,  taunting  her,  "  while  you're  angry  at  a  slight  to  your 
personal  pretensions ;  but  you  won't  think  so  by  and  by,  you 
know,  when  you  come  to  look  into  it.  There  is  a  flaw,  and, 
whether  you  like  it  or  not,  you've  got  to  face  it.  Sir  Arthur 
knew  it,  and  you'd  better  know  it,  too,  if  you're  really  and  truly 
Sir  Arthur's  inheritor.  The  old  gentleman  came  into  the 
property  himself  on  the  strength  of  aflidavits  to  the  effect  that 
his  second  brother  Clarence  had  pre-deceased  his  eldest  brother 
Alexander,  having  been  killed  in  action  in  crushing  a  native  insur- 
rection in  Algeria,  in  or  about  the  year  1808,  if  I  remember 


TBB    TSNTl   or    BBBM. 


M 


rightly.     The  Courts  would  have  accepted  the  aflidavits,  perhaps, 
if  the  claim  had  been  opposed,   and,  perhaps,   thuy  wouldn  L. 
I3ut  u3  no  opposition  was  raised,  adniiTiistration   was  granted, 
and  Sir  Arthur  was  allowed  to  succeed  quietly.     However,  there 
was  a  flaw  in  the  evidence  for  all  that.     And  I'll  tell  you  the 
Haw,  to  let  you  see  how  little  I'm  afraid  of  you.     Clarence  Kn}  - 
vett's  body  was  never  recovered,  or  never  identified.    He  was  only 
missing,  not  certainly  killed.     And  as  he  had  run  away  from 
England   to  avoid   serious   unpleiisantness  in   the  matter  of  a 
criminal  charge  preferred  against  him  by  his  own  fatlier,  and  as 
he  was  serving  in  the  French  army,  under  an  assumed  name,  to 
avoid  detection,  the  question  of  identification  was  by  no  means 
iin  easy  one.    Sir  Arthur  went  over  to  Algiers  to  settle  it,  to  be 
sure,  and  satisfied  himself  (as  indeed  he  had  every  reason  to  be 
easily  satisfied)  that  Clarence  Knyvett  had  died  in  fact  at  the  date 
assigned.     But  many  soldiers  of  his  old  regiment  did  not  believe 
it.   They  thought  he'd  sneaked  off,  and  hidden  among  the  natives. 
And  if  Clarence  Knyvett's  now  alive,  he's  the  owner  of  the  pro- 
perty ;  and  if  he's  dead,  dying  at  a  later  date  than  Alexander,  his 
children,,  if  any,  and  not  you,  are  the  inheritors  of  his  estate  1  " 
As  he  spoke,  Iris  faced  him  with  cold  contempt  in  every  lino  of 
her  face. 

•'  Is  that  all  you  have  to  tell  me  ?  "  she .  asked,  severely,  as 
soon  as  he'd  finished. 

"  No  ;  "  Harold  answered,  loosing  his  head  with  rage,  '•  that's 
not  all.  I've  something  more  to  tell  you.  You  won't  like  to  hear 
it,  but  I'll  tell  you  for  all  that.  One  bad  turn  deserves  another. 
Unless  a  later  will  of  Sir  Arthur's  turns  up  leaving  the  property 
in  a  more  equitable  manner — as  it  may  do  any  day — I  shall 
never  rest  satisfied  till  I've  hunted  up  Clarence  Knyvett,  his 
heirs  and  representatives,  and  turned  you  out  of  the  doubtful 
inheritance  to  which  you've  probably  no  real  title.  So  now  you 
know  what  you've  got  to  reckon  with." 

*•  And  if  another  will  does  turn  up,"  Iris  rejoined,  quietly, 
though  with  ashy  lips,  "  leaving  the  property  entirely  to  you, 
you'll  accept  Sir  Arthur's  claims  without  hesitation,  and  let 
Uncle  Clarence's  heirs,  ifhe  ever  had  any,  go  without  the  inheri- 
tance to  which  they  have  probably  the  best  title  I .  .  .  .  Is  that 
what  you  mean  ?  ...  Harold,  you  may  go  I"  And,  rising 
her  full  height,  she  pointed  to  the  door.  •*  You  had  only  one 
friend  in  your  own  family,"  she  said,  "ana  jou  vu  uucueeded 
to-night  in  turning  her  against  you." 


mm 


'■vjj.ij<sijij>i,»'i',»i'v-  :"..; 


66 


THE    TRNTS    OF    SHEll. 


Harold  took  up  his  hat,  and  went.  On  the  landing',  he 
paused. 

"  Remember,"  be  called  back,  with  a  parkng  shot,  ^' I'll  rot 
test  tih  I've  brought  the  rightful  heirs  to  light  against  you." 

'Jlien  he  walked  down  the  stairs,  and  emerged,  all  on  fire,  int( 
the  gaslit  streets  of  fog-bound  Kensington. 

As  soon  as  he  felt  the  fresh  air  on  his  brow,  however,  he  recog- 
nised witJi  a  rush  how  serious  a  mistake  he  had  committed  in 
his  anger.  Another  will  mhjht  turn  up  any  day — a  sensible  will, 
in  his  own  favour — and  then  they  would  have  this  handle  of  the 
flaw  in  the  title  to  use  against  him.  Or  if  another  will  did  nul 
turn  up — well,  it  was  absurd  to  think  that  a  man  of  edncnt'on 
and  technical  skill  like  himself — a  man  of  resource  and  entu•,^^ 
and  wit — a  man,  above  all,  possessed  of  the  precious  an* I 
invaluable  quality  of  unscrupulousness — should  let  himself  hi 
diddled  out  of  a  splendid  estate  by  a  pack  of  women,  tor  no 
better  reason  than  just  because  a  piece  of  dirty  paper  with  a  few 
names  scratched  upon"  it  was  not  duly  forthcoming  from  Sii 
Arthur's  davenport.  It's  easy  enough,  of  course,  to  coi)y  a 
signature,  any  fool  can  do  that.  Sir  Arthur  oiujht  to  have 
altered  that  will  ;  he  mcnnt  to  alter  it  ;  he  all  but  did  alter  it. 
How  perfectly  simple  to — well,  to  alter  it  posthumously  for  the 
dilatory  old  man,  in  accordance  with  his  own  obvious  and 
expressed  intentions. 

Forgery,  they  call  it,  in  the  jcoarse,  blunt  dialect  of  the  Pro 
bate  and  Divorce  Division. 

But  in  that  ease,  as  things  stood,  he  had  put  a  weapon  into 
Iris's  hands  which  she  might  possibly  be  inclined  to  use  against 
hira.  Well,  now  that  the  matter  had  gone  so  far  wrong,  the 
best  way  in  the  end  would  perhaps  be  to  let  them  prove  thi' 
existing  will,  which  would  commit  them  to  acceptance  of  Su- 
Arthur's  claim  ;  arul  aftiT  tliat,  whenever  the — the  new  hypo- 
thetical will  turn  up  (and  it  should  turned  up  ;  on  that  he  was 
decided)  they  would  find  it  less  easy  to  tight  the  matter  against 
him.  Meanwhile,  to  annoy  them,  he'd  hunt  up  his  Uncle 
Clarence's  business,  too.  The  man  very  likely  was  still  alive. 
Any  weapon's  good  enough  to  use  against  an  enemy. 

An  enemy  I  And  yet,  what  a  splendid  creature  that  girl  was, 
after  all  I  He  had  never  admired  her  so  much  in  his  life  before 
as  when  she  confronted  him  like  a  wild  cat,  in  her  anger, 
to-night.  That  righteous  indignation  became  her  magnificently. 
By  Jove,  she  was  grand  t     What  a  fool  he'd   bcun  not  to  marr^ 


IBM   TKNTS   OF   SHUC. 


87 


hor  long  ago  !  Wliy,  let  alone  the  fortune,  she  was  a  girl  any 
man  might  be  pro\id  to  marry  for  her  own  sake  any  day — if  he 
meant  marrying.  She  was  so  pretty,  so  clever,  and  had  such 
funds  of  character  I  And  he'd  noticed  the  other  afternoon,  as 
they  drove  back  from  Staines  in  a  friend's  open  carriage,  she 
was  the  only  woman  that  ever  lived  who  held  her  parasol  of 
deliberate  purpose  at  such  an  angle  as  not  entirely  to  shut  out 
the  view  of  all  surrounding  objects  from  her  male  companion. 

A  splendid  creature,  and  a  most  undoubted  heiress.  But  as  a 
woman  alone,  well  worth  the  sacrifice. 

Ho  wished  to  goodness,  now,  indeed,  he'd  married  her  off  hand 
a  couple  of  years  since.  Nay,  more,  in  his  own  cold,  selfish  way, 
lie  awoke  with  a  start  to  the  pj'emn  fact  that  he  wanted  that 
woman.  As  far  as  was  possill*'  to  such  a  nature  as  his,  he  was 
in  love  with  Iris — and  he  had  only  just  that  very  evening  dia- 
covered  it.  ■ ,  <  *    ' " 


'.<M   II-."  nil  J 


^wmimnwv^ 


^PUFWi^Pi^ 


88 


THX  T£NTB  OW   8HEM. 


CHAPTER  Xm. 


mis    STRIKES. 


"  Uncle,"  Iris  said,  when  she  talked  it  over  with  l.lie  old 
barrister  in  the  dining-room  next  morning,  "  after  all  that  hap- 
pened last  night,  do  you  know,  I'm  not  perhaps  quite  so  anxious 
as  I  was  to  share  Undo  Arthur's  fortune  with  Harold." 

♦'  God  bless  the  girl  I  "  Uncle  Tom  cried,  in  mock  horror. 
"  What  on  earth  does  she  mean  now  ?  You  were  both  cquall)' 
related  to  Sir  Arthur  by  birth,  wern't  you,  and,  as  Aristotle  says, 
equality  is  justice." 

Iris  blushed  slightly.  It  was  too  cruel  for  him  thus  to  bring 
up  her  own  words  in  judgment  against  her.  "  But  he  behaved 
so  disgracefully,  so  abominably,  last  night,"  she  said,  apologeti- 
cally.    "  He  doesn't  deserve  it." 

"  It's  a  great  comfort  to  me  to  see,"  Uncle  Tom  responded,  with 
a  cheerful  blink,  "  that  going  to  Girton  and  coming  out  a  Third 
Classic  still  leaves  a  girl  essentially  a  woman  at  heart  for  all 
that.  No  woman  that  ever  lived,  whether  she'd  read  Aristotle 
or  not,  cares  or  ever  cared  one  farthing  yetal)Out  abstract  justice. 
What  women  care  about  is  the  satisfaction  of  their  own  personal 
emotions  and  feelings.  I'm  glad  to  see,  my  dear,  that  in  this 
respect  you're  no  better  than  the  rest.  •  He  ought  by  rights  to 
have  half  this  property,  of  course,*  you  say  in  enect,  '  but  as  I 
see  he's  a  sneak  and  a  mean-spirited  cur,  I  don't  think  I'll 
bother  about  giving  him  his  fair  share  of  it.'  Very  womanly 
and  very  right.  That,  I  take  it,  my  child,  is  about  the  lon[»  and 
the  short  of  your  argument." 

Iris  laughed.  •'  Perhaps  so,"  she  replied.  "  But  anyhow, 
Uncle  Tom,  after  what  he  did  and  said  last  night,  I  find  my 
desire  to  do  him  strict  justice  has  considerably  abated." 

So,  Aristotle  to  the  contrary  not  withstanding,.  Uncle  Tom  wap 
permitted  vicariously  to  prove  Sir  Arthur's  will  in  due  course — 
Iiis  herself  being  named  sole  executrix — and  to  take  all  neces- 
sary steps  for  her  succession  to  the  landed  property.  As  soon  as 
aU  the  legal  arrangements  were  finally  completed,  Iris  once  more 
had  a  great  consultation  to  make  with  her  guardian,  guide,  phil- 


THK    TENTS   OF    SUGM. 


89 


ofjorbnr  nnd  fn>Tif1.  Slip  linH  given  up  the  liospita!  nnrse  fad,  of 
course,  ior  tlie  jiresent,  us  mcoiisisteiit  witli  lier  existing  position 
as  a  great  heiress  ;  but  she  had  another  mine  to  explode  upon 
poor  Uncle  Tom  now,  and  OTice  more  a  mine  due  to  an  acute 
attack  of  that  most  undesirable  and  inconvenient  mental  disease, 
conscience. 

"  Now  I  want  to  know,  Uncle  Tom,"  the  heiress  and  Third 
Classic  said,  persuasively,  cornering  him  at  bay  in  an  easy  chair 
•n  Mrs.  Knyvett's  little  drawing-room  at  Kensington  (for  they 
had  not  yet  taken  possession  of  the  projecLed  mansion  in  Lowndes 
Bquare),  "  is  there  any  truth,  or  is  there  not,  in  that  story  of 
Harold's  about  Uncle  Clarence's  supposed  disappeanince." 

The  distinguished  Q.C.  shufiled  awkwardly  in  his  seat.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  began  faintly  to  roniizt?  the  feelings 
of  an  unwilling  witness  under  his  own  searching  cioss-examina- 
i;ion.  "A  cock-and-bull  story!"  he  said  at  last  evasively. 
"Just  said  to  frighten  you.  If  I  were  you,  Iris,  I'd  think  no 
icDore  about  it." 

"  But  is  there  any  truth  in  it,  unule  ?  "  Iris  persistod,  with 
quiet  emphasis,  as  the  distinguished  Q.C.  himself  would  have 
done  in  the  same  case,  if  only  he  had  got  his  own  double  safely 
lodged  in  front  of  him  in  that  amateur  witness-box. 

"Bless  my  soul!"  Uncle  rom  replied,  stioicing  her  hair 
gent\y  to  create  a  div(u\sion,  "  what  a  persistent  cro;s-oxiininer 
the  jjirl  is,  to  be  sure.  If  I  tell  you  no.  you'll  not  believe  me  ; 
lUid  if  I  tell  you  yes,  you'll  want  to  go  running  over  Europe, 
Asia,  Africa,  and  America,  not  to  speak  of  the  islands  of  the 
Parahc  Ocean,  in  search  of  Clarence  Knyvett,  his  heirs,  or 
executors." 

*•  'rii;Mi  there  is  some  truth  in  it,"  Iris  went  on.  with  one  hand 
aid  I    rsuasivcly  on  her  uncle's  arm. 

••  As  much  trutli  as  a  man  like  yon."  cousin  Ilaroid  cnn  sppak, 
i  suppose."  the  old  man  answered,  with  a  gasp,  as  who  should 
it  last  resolve  to  have  an  aching  tooth  drawn,  for  he  felt  sure 
due  must  get  it  all  out  of  him  now.  "  The  fict  is,  my  dear, 
your  Uncle  Clarence's  deitli.  like  Jeames  De  la  Plir.:he's  birth, 
is  •  wrop  in  mystery.'  He  left  England  under  a  cloud.  He  was 
*  gay  vonng  soldier,  always  getting  into  scrapes,  and  always 
spending  more  than  he'd  got,  and  sulKing  in  disgrace,  and  com- 
pouncUiig  with  his  creditors.  It's  supposed,  though  I  don't 
know  an  t'ling  abo'it  it  for  certain,  that  he  forged,  or  triel  to 
^'^'•jje,  your  ^TandfatliiT  s  name  to  siunlry  accept.uices.  It'a 
furtutir  Buppoaed  that  this  uaiuu  ut  last  lu  your  griiudiathur't 


Hi 


&• 


piBBJ^i|P^fWP^»^»Wi^>^W 


90 


TBS   TRMT8   OF   SHEM. 


knowle(!g6,  and  tliat  your  grandfather,  being,  lil^e  Mogos,  ari 
austere  man,  threatened  to  expose  the  whole  buaiiiuHS.  B() 
Clarence,  it  is  believed,  like  the  great  Orion,  went  Klopuig  hIowI} 
to  the  West.  Anyhow,  one  fine  morning  the  news  got  wind  thiii 
your  uncle  was  missing;  and  from  that  day  to  this  he  haa  bouii 
consistently  missed,  and  never  turned  up  again." 

'•But  what  was  that  about  his  enlisting  in  the  French  array  ?  " 
Iris  asked,  with  a  caress,  as  the  old  man  paused. 

*•  Well,  nothing  was  known  about  that,  my  dear,  during  your 
Uncle  Alexander's  hfe,"  Uncle  Tom  went  on,  like  a  man  from 
whom  evidence  is  extorted  by  rack  and  thumb-screw  ;  •♦  w< 
thought,  indeed,  he'd  gone  to  America.  But  as  soon  m  Hii 
Arthur  inherited  the  property  it  became  necessary  to  find  [jroo 
of  Clarence's  death,  whether  Clarence  was  dead  or  living  ;  Hi 
Sir  Arthur,  tracking  him  gradually  from  France,  went  over  to 
Algiers  in  the  end  to  find  it.  It  was  through  that,  in  fact,  that 
he  settled  down,  first  at  Sidi  Aia.  Well,  this  was  the  result 
of  Sir  Arthur's  investigation."  And  here  Uncle  Tom  refreshed 
his  memory  with  a  look  at  his  note-book.  *♦  He  found  that 
Clarence,  on  leaving  England,  had  enlisted  in  the  Third  Chas- 
seurs a.t  Toulon,  under  the  assumed  name  of — what  was  it  ? 
let  me  see.  Ah,  yes !  Joseph  Leboutillier ;  that  he  had  been 
sent  over  to  Algeria  to  join  his  regiment ;  that  he  took  piirL  for 
some  time  in  operations  in  the  interior ;  and  that  during  the 
partial  insurrection  of  1868  he  was  employed  in  a  column  mm 
to  reduce  the  mountaineers  of  some  outlandish  place  they  csill 
Grande  Kabylie.  A  certain  battle  took  place  in  this  remote 
quarter  against  the  insurgents  on  the  20th  of  June  in  that  year, 
and  after  it,  Mr.  Joseph  Leboutiller  was  reported  missing.  His 
name  was  struck  off  the  roll  of  the  regiment,  and  though  his 
body  happened  to  be  never  identified,  the  French  authorities  were 
perfectly  convinced  that  he  died  in  the  skirmish,  and  was  lost  on 
the  field — an  accident  which,  as  Beau  Brummel  said  almut  a 
rent,  may  happen  to  any  gentleman  any  day.  Our  own  Courts 
admitted  the  papers  Sir  Arthur  produced  as  proof  of  deatli,  and 
were  satisfied  of  the  identity  of  Joseph  Leboutillier  with  Clarence 
Knyvett.  In  short,  the  question's  really  as  good  as  settled  ;  a 
judge  in  camera  has  decided  pro  forma  that  Clarence  Knyvott  died 
on  the  20th  of  June,  1868 ;  so  die  he  didp  then,  legally  and 
officially,  and  there's  nothing  more  to  be  said  about  it." 

Iris  smiled,  "  I  wish,  uncle  dear,"  she  said.,  good-humour- 
edly,  "  I  could  share  your  supreme  faith  in  the  absolute  wisdom 
ftnd  abstract  justice  of  the  law  of  England.    But  John  Stuart 


Mill  iays- 


Oh,  dear  me  f     I   forgot  '* — for  Uncle  Tom  wap 


topping  up  his   ears  already,  least  tlipy  should  be  profaned  by 

resb  assaults  of  that  dangerous  and  detestable  political  econ 

1  )tay  : — "  To  return  to  the  question  now  before  the  Hocse,  what 

id    Harold  mean?  or  did  he  mean  anything,  by  saying  that 

nany  soldiers  in  Uncle  Clarence's  regiment  didn't  believe  he  was 

.eally  dead,  biit  thought  he'd  sneaked  oflf  and  hidden  himself 

somewhere  among  the  natives  ?  " 

Uncle  Tom  started.     •♦  God  bless  my  soul !  "  he  exclaimed, 
with  a  gesture  cf  horror.     "  So  this  is  what  comes  then  of  send- 
incr  girlf   to    Cambridge.     Who   says   women    have    no    legal 
instincts  ?     Why,  the  girl  ought  to  have  gone  to  tha  Old  Bailev 
Bar  I     With  the  acumen  of  a  judge — if  judges  have  any,  which 
1  very  ii.u  ii  doubt — she  puts  her  finger  plump  down  at  once  on 
the  one  weak  point  of  the  entire  contention.     Remarkable ;  re- 
markable !    Well  the  fact's  this  ;  an  ancient  French  mihtary  in 
retreat—  t'.iat's  just  how  he  signed  himself — anonymous,  practi- 
cally— once  wrote  a  letter  to  Sir  Arthur  at  Sidi  Aia  (shortly 
after  your  Uncle   Alexander's  decease),  telling  him  he  didn't 
believe  th  s  man  Leboutillier  was  dead  at  all ;  but  that  he'd  run 
away,  and  gone  off  absurdly  on  his  own  account  to  join  the 
natives,      ihe  ancient  French  mihtary  in   retreat    didn't  give 
his  name,  of  course,  and  so  we  couldn't  cross-examine   him  , 
but  your  uncle  sent  me  a  copy  of  the  letter  from  Aix-les-Bains, 
and  also  another  to  your  cousin  Harold.     The  ancient  French 
soldier,  in  his  precious  communication,  dticlared  he  had  been  a 
chasseur  with  Mr.  Joseph  Leboutiller,  and  known  him  well; 
that  J  c  SB  ill  Leboutillier  was  an  eccentric  person,  holding  exag- 
gerated notions  about  justice  to  the  indujenes  ;  that  he  specially 
objected  to  this  particular  war,  waged  against  some  people  called 
Kabyles,    if    I    recollect    aright,    who    inhabit    the    trackless 
mountains  of  the  interior ;  that  he  often  expressed  the  deepest 
regret  at  being  employed  to  crush  out  the   liberty  and  inde- 
pendence of  '  these  unfortunate  people ; '  and  that  he  almost 
refused  on  one  occasion  to  obey  his  superior  officer,  when  that 
gentleman  ordered  him  to  join  in  burning  down  the  huts  and 
villages  of  the  insurgent  tribesmen." 

••  Very  Uke  a  Knyvett."  Iris  murmured,  parenthetically. 

♦•  Very.  The  Knyvetts  were  always  Quixotic."  Uncle  Tom 
continued,  with  a  faintly  compassionate  inflexion  in  his  forensic 
voice.  **  But,  at  any  rate,  tl'C  ancient  French  militiiry  in  retreat 
was  firmly  convinced  that  Joseph  Loboubillidr  had  deserted   \\- 


J2 


THE   TENTS   OF    8BEII. 


the  battle,  to  avoid  bearing  arms  against  the  Kabyles  any  longer  , 
and  he  said  that  many  otlier  ancient  mihtaries  of  the  same  regi- 
ment entirely  agreed  with  him  in  this  supposition." 

"  And  then  V  " 

*•  Why,  then,  Sir  Arthur  sent  up  a  French  detective,  who  under- 
stood Arabic,  into  the  mountains  to  make  full  inquiries,  just  to 
satisfy  his  conscience  ;  for  though  he  was  a  selfish,  pig-headed 
old  man.  Sir  Arthur,  and  as  cross  as  two  sticks,  he,  too,  had  a 
conscience,  like  all  the  Knyvetts — bar  that  singular  exception .■; 
your  Uncle  Charles,  with  his  son  Harold.  Your  father  and  you, 
to  be  sure,  inherited  the  family  conscience  in  its  most  virulent 
form  ;  but  it  was  strongly-enoni^li  developed  even  in  poor  oli' 
Sir  Arthur.  That's  why  he  lelt  liis  tbrtime  to  you,  my  dear, 
instead  of  to  Harold  ;  he  tliouglit  it  was  his  duty,  and  duty  to  a 
Knyvett  is  a  perfect  will-o'-the-wisp,  leading  you  all  into  every 
Utopian  quagmire  you  happen  to  come  across — tliougli,  in  thi? 
case,  of  course,  he  was  porfL(  tly  right  in  obeying  its  dictates." 

"And  what  did  Sir  Arthur  find   out  at   last?"    Ins   asked, 
gently,  stroking  her  uncle's  hand  with  her  own,  as  if  to  depre- 
ate  his  wrath  at  her  possession  of  anything  so  inconvenient  Af> 
a  sense  of  right  towards  others. 

•'  lUosL  iuiLunately,  my   child,  he  found   out   exactly  notlnng 
The  natives  fought  shy  of  his  detective  to  a  man,  and  energeti 
cally  disclaimed  knowledge  of  any  sort  about  Joseph  Leboutillier, 
They'd  never  even  heard  the  Jianie,  they  swore.     So  Sir  Arthui 
came  back  empty-lianded   from  his  (juest,  and  enjoyed  his  pro 
perty   in   peace  and  quietness.     Quite  right,  too.     People  ough» 
nearer  to  pay  any  attention  at  all  to  anonymous  letters.     Par 
ticularly    not   in    matters    aflecting    the    Probate   and    Divorce 
Division." 

Iris  was  silent  for  a  minute  or  two  more.  Then  she  said, 
slowly,  much  terrified  lest  she  should  rouse  the  dormant  lion  0/ 
Uncle  Tom's  wrath,  "  Sir  Arthur  might  iiavebeen  satisfied  with 
that.  Uncle  Tom,  but  I'm  not.  I  suppose,  as  you  say,  I've  got 
the  family  conscience  in  an  aggravated  form  ;  but,  whatever  it 
says,  I  must  obey  it.  I  must  find  out  exactly  what  became  of 
L'ncle  Clarence." 

The  distinguished  Q.C.  flared  up  like  petroleum.  "  You're  s 
fool  if  you  do,  my  dear,"  he  answored,  losing  his  temper. 

••  •  lUit,  children,  youshould  never  let  yourangry  passions  rise,'" 
Ins  quoted,  gently.  "That  shows  you  think  there's  still  some 
chance  Uncle  Clarence  is  really  alive,  or  has  children  living.  In 
Jevon'a  *  Inductive   Logic  '  I   remember, — "  but   Uncle  Tom's 


/ 


mm 


THB   TKNTg  OP  8HSU. 


9!) 


,r.iT9  wero  stopped  tight  with  either  thumb,  turned  once  more  as 
(leaf  as  the  adder's.  He  Ustened  not  to  Iris's  Girtoman  charms, 
cliarnied  she  nuvor  so  learnedly,  that  stony-heartod  barrister. 

"  I  niigbt  be  using  somebody  else's  money,  you  see,"  his 
niece  wftiit  on  quietly,  as  soon  as  Uncle  Tom  gave  signs  of  having 
it'coverrd  the  free  use  of  his  auditory  nerve,  "  and  that,  you 
nmst  admit,  would  be  sheer  robbery." 

Uncle  Tom  had  too  much  respect  for  the  law  of  England  not 
to  allow,  wiUi  obvious  regret,  the  justice  of  that  last  patent 
truism. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  propose  to  do  ?"  he  responded  sulkily. 

"  For  the  presetit,  advertise  in  the  English,  French,  and 
Algoriiui  papurs,"  Iris  answered,  with  calm  j)er.sistenci3,  "for  any 
inluruiation  as  to  the  whereabouts  or  death  of  CJiarles  Knyvett 
or  Joseph  ]iOl)outillier." 

"  And  raise  up  for  yourself  a  score  or  so  of  imitation  Tichborne 
claimants,"  Uncle  Tom  cried,  with  concentrated  scorn  in  his 
voice. 

♦•  What  is  a  Tichborne  Claimant  ?"  Iris  asked,  in  all  innocence, 
imagining  the  animal  to  be  some  peculiar  species  of  legal  techni- 
cality— a  nolle  prom'/jm,  for  example,  or  an  oi/er  and  terminer. 
I'hc  shadowy  f'^rms  of  John  Doe  and  Ricliard  Hoe  floated  lambent 
on  the  air  before  her  vague  mental  vision. 

•'Bless  the  child,"  Uncle  Tom  exclaimed,  fervently  raising  his 
hands  to  Infaven.  "  What  happy  innocence  !  What  golden  igno- 
rance I  You  may  thank  your  stars  you  don't  even  know  the 
creature  by  name.  Why,  when  I  was  young,  my  dear,  some 
twenty  years  ago  or  so,  we  all  of  us  wasted  threee  good  twelve 
months  of  our  lives  with  feverish  anxiety  in  followuig  the  for- 
tunes and  iina!  exposu.'e  of  a  wretched  impostor,  a  claimant  to 
the  Tichborne  estates  in  Hampshire,  who  was  inflicted  upon  a 
long-suii'cring  world  solely  as  a  result  of  injudicious  advertising 
in  Co.onial  piipers  by  an  ill-advised  woman.  And  you're  young 
enough  and  lucky  enough  never  even  to  have  heard  of  him  I  If 
you  weren't,  he'd  have  tau^rlit  you  a  severe  lesson.  Well,  so 
much  for  the  present,  you  say — so  far,  bad ;  and  how  about  the 
future?" 

"  In  the  second  place,"  Iris  went  on,  firmly,  "as  soon  as  ever 
the  weather's  cool  enough  to  allow  it,  I'll  go  over  to  Aigf^-ia,  and 
hunt  up  all  I  can  find  out  about  Uncle  Clarence  on  the  spot,  in 
person." 

"Well,  that's  not  so  bad,"  the  eminent  Q.C.  responded, 
mollified,  "  for  it'll  enable  you,  at  any  rate,  to  take  possession 
yourself  of  the  house  and  belongings  at  Sidi  Aia." 


^ 


TUB    IKNTB   <Ur    8HKJU 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


F   LLOVVING  UP  THE  CLUB. 

It  was  evening,  and  Le  Marchant  lay  outside  the'tent,  in  the 
shade  of  the  old  gnarled  olive-tree  that  overhung  the  tomb,  taking 
his  lesson  in  Kabyle  on  an  outstretched  rug  from  his  pretty 
teacher,  Mericm.  He  had  made  considerable  progress  in  the 
language  by  this  time,  having  a  natural  taste  for  picking  up 
strange  tongues,  as  often  happens  with  people  of  bilingual  origin, 
and  Le  Marchant,  as  a  Jersey  man,  had  been  born  bilingual,  if 
the  expression  may  pass  muster  in  this  age  of  heredities.  The 
painter,  like  Pliable,  had  turned  back  disheartened  at  that  first 
Slough  of  Despond,  the  irregular  verbs,  and  given  up  the  vain 
attempt  in  despair ;  he  sat  idly  by  now,  drawing  lazy  sketches  in 
his  pocket-book  of  Meriem  in  her  didactic  attitude,  with  her 
forpfijiger  uplifted,  and  her  pupil  before  her.  Hard  by,  two 
young  Kabyles,  just  returned  from  their  fields,  stood  gossiping, 
opposite  them,  with  hoes  in  their  hands.  One  was  Ahmed 
Meriem's  future  purchaser;  the  other  was  a  taller  and  better- 
robed  young  man  of  more  un pleasing  aspect,  whom  they  had 
often  seen  before  hanging  about  the  village. 

Suddenly,  as  Meriem  was  in  the  very  act  of  saying,  •*  Now, 
Eustace,  remember  as/i/i—A  dress,"  and  Le  Marchant  was 
obediently  repeating  the  woj-d  after  her  in  due  form,  one  of  the 
young  men,  for  no  apparent  reason,  raised  his  voice  loudly,  and 
rushing  forward  with  a  yell,  flew  like  a  dog  in  blind  rage  and 
wrath  at  the  throat  of  the  other.  Before  they  could  clearly  see 
what  was  happening,  the  second  flung  him  off,  but  with  some 
little  difficulty.  In  a  moment,  the  i  ^sle  had  assumed  a  savage 
form  ;  they  were  fighting  tooth  and  nail  in  one  confused  mass, 
and  Ahmed's  knife,  drawn  like  lightning  from  its  scabbard, 
glemed  bright  in  the  air,  just  ready  to  descend  on  the  bare 
breas*  of  his  taller  antagonist.  With  a  sliarp  cry  Meriem  and 
Le  Manliant  sprang  forward  together  with  one  accord,  and 
separated  the  two  combatants  by  mam  force,  after  a  short,  sharp 
strui^gle.  The  whole  thnig  was  over  in  a  second  or  two  at  most, 
and  the  two  ftngry  men  stood  glaring  at  one  another  across  five 


•\v 


BBH 


V 


THE    TBNTB   OF    BHEM.  ' 


96 


yards  of  distance,  like  bull-dogs  whose  masters  hold  them  apart 
forcibly  by  the  collar.  A  few  angry  words,  a  few  hasty  explana- 
tions, a  deprecating  speech  from  poor  trembling  Meriem,  whose 
ia,ce  was  scarlet  with  shame  or  excitement,  and  forthwith, 
Ahmed's  knife  was  quietly  sheathed  once  more,  and  the  men, 
smiling  now  with  all  their  even  white  teeth  in  perfect  good 
humour,  embraced  like  brothers,  as  if  nothing  at  all  had  liap- 
[xmed  between  them.  That  is  the  way  with  these  simple 
cliildren  of  Nature.  One  moment  they'll  stick  a  knife  into  you 
witliout  the  slightest  compunction  ,  the  next,  for  no  reason  a 
European  can  fathom,  they'll  give  up  thoir  very  hearts  to  please 
you. 

"  What  was  it  all  about  ?  "  Blake  asked,  with  interest,  as 
Meriem  returned,  flushed  and  panting,  to  the  rug. 

•*  It  was  about  w«,  Vernon,"  Meriem  answered,  unabashed, 
with  perfect  simplicity.  "  This  is  how  ii.  happened.  Ahmed 
wanted  to  marry  me,  you  know,  and  had  bargained  with  my 
uncle,  and  got  a  price  named  for  me  ;  but  now,  the  other  man, 
Hussein,  has  offered  my  uncle  a  little  more,  and  so  the  Amine  has 
made  a  new  arrangement,  and  I'm  to  be  sold  to  Hussein,  who's 
offered  the  best  price,  and  is  so  much  the  richer." 

She  said  it  as  she  wouhl  have  said  the  day  was  fine.  It  was 
matter  of  course  to  her  that  she  should  be  thus  passively  and 
unresistingly  disposed  of. 

'*  Do  you  like  him  ?  "  Blake  asked.  ••  Or,  at  least,  do  you 
ilislike  him  any  less  than  Ahmed  !" 

Meriem  raised  her  stately  head  with  proud  unconcern.  '*  "What 
does  it  matter  to  me?  "  she  answered,  haughtily.  *'  I  like  none 
of  them  either  better  or  worse  than  another.  They're  only 
Kabyles." 

"  You  don't  care  for  Kabyles,  then  ?  "  Blake  went  on,  with 
culpable  carelessness. 

"  Not  since  I've  seen  Englishmen,"  Meriem  replied,  with  the 
same  perfectly  pellucid  sincerity  as  ever.  It  was  to  her  a  simple 
statement  of  mental  experience.  She  had  no  idea  of  flirting,  in 
tlie  English  sense.  Her  feelings  were  so.  She  must  marry, 
naturally,  whoever  purchased  her. 

When  she  was  gone  away  that  evening,  and  they  sat  alone  in 
the  tent,  Le  Marcluiiit  turned  round  after  a  long  pause,  and  said 
earnestly  to  Blake,  "  It  comes  home  to  me  more  and  more  every 
day  I  stop  here  that  we  oiiL^ht  to  hunt  up  something  about  this 
poor  girl's  English  relations." 


ii; 


Ii 


96 


THS  TENT8  OF  SHSM. 


••  Why  80  ?  "  the  paintnr  answered.  "  You  think  sheoucjhtuM 
to  be  allowed  to  marry  Aiimod  or  Hussein  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.  It's  terrible  to  me  oven  to  contemplate  such 
a  thing  as  possible.  She  must  never  marry  anybody  but  a 
European,  her  natural  equal." 

"Then  why  don't  you  marry  her,  yourself,  my  dear  fellow  ? 
You  seem  to  be  awfully  gone  on  her,  always." 

'•  Le  Marchant  hesitated.  "  Because,"  he  said,  at  last,  in  a 
very  serious  tone,  "  she  wouldn't  take  me." 

"  Not  take  vou  !  Just  you  ask  her  I  What  an  ahsurd  idea  ! 
Why,  my  dear  follow,  she'd  take  Ahmed  or  Hussein,  or  any  other 
man  hor  unelo  chose  for  her.  Not  take  you,  indeed  I  Not  take 
an  Englishman  !     Why,  she'd  just  jump  at  you." 

"1  tiiiiik  n(it,"  Le  Marchant  answerctl,  much  more  earnestly. 
"  She  might  take  Ahmed  or  Hussein,  as  you  say,  no  doubt, 
l)ocause  she  couldn't  help  herself;  but  not  me,  of  that  I'm 
OL-rtain." 

"  And  why  not,  Le  Marchant  ?  "    -  " 

"Because,  my  dear  fellow,  if  you  ask  me  the  plain  truth,  her     \ 
heart's  already  otherwise  engaged — and  to  a  man  who  doesn't 
really  care  twopence  about  her." 

There  was  a  long  i)iiuse  ;  then  Blake  remarked  again,  with- 
drawing his  cigan^tte  in  a  pensive  way,  "  Do  you  roally  mean  to 
tell  me,  Le  Marchant,  you'd  marry  that  girl — that  barbarian — 
that  savage,  if  you  thought  she'd  take  you  7  " 

"  It's  a  terrible  thing  to  think  of  her  being  made  over,  bound 
hand  and  foot,  to  Ahmed  or  Hussein,"  the  naturalist  answered, 
evasively.  '•  They'd  treat  her  no  better  than  they  treat  their 
doidieys."  ■  . 

"  And  to  prevent  that,  you'd  throw  yourself  away  upon  her,  a 
mere  Kabyle  girl !     You,  with  all  your  cleverness  and  laiowledge  : 
and  etlucation  I     A  man  like  you,  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the 
foremost  files  of  time — why,  the  thing's  ridiculous  I     Le  Mar-    . 
chant,  I  haven't  half  your  brains  or  your  learning,  1  know  ;  I'm    • 
nothing  but  a  landscape  painter,  the  least  among  the  wielders  of  ; 
camel's  hair,  but  sooner  than  tie  myself  for  life  to  such  a  creature  ,' 
as  that,  I'd  blow  my  brains  out,  such   as  they  are,  and  be  done 
with  it  for  ever.     To  toy  with,  to  flirt  with,  to  amuse  one  for  a 
day — very  well,  if  you  will ;  but  to  marry — impossible.     Never, 
uever,  never." 

"  Tastes  differ,"  Le  Marchant  answered,  drily  ;  "  especially  in 
these  matters.  Some  people  insist  upon  accomplishments  and 
high-heeled  boots  ;  other  care  rather  for  marked  character  ajid 


'i>:ni^\W!: 


tai  Tsiftf  •»  inni. 


u 


QfttWe  %r\BTgy.  Ton  mfty  judge  men  largely  by  what  they  admire. 
Strong  natures  like  strong  natures ;  and,  given  strength,  they 
despise  externals.  Other  minds  think  more  of  mere  culture, 
perhaps  ;  it's  not  the  diamond  tliey  admir),  but  its  cutting. 
Diamonds  in  the  rough  are  to  them  mere  pebbles.  For  my  part, 
it's  the  stone  itself  that  takes  my  fancy.  You  don't  care  for 
her ;  but  don't  break  her  heart  any  more  than's  absolutely 
necessary.     For  I  see  she  can't  help  falling  in  love  with  you." 

Next  morning,  when  Meriem  came  round  to  the  tent,  aa  was 
her  daily  wont,  with  the  milk  from  the  cows  she  tended  herself 
for  the  two  young  Englishmen,  Le  Marchant  met  her  with  a 
sadder  and  more  anxious  face  than  usual.  "  Meriem,"  he  said, 
'•  I  want  to  speak  to  you  seriously  about  your  own  future. 
Whatever  comes,  you  must  never  marry  either  Ahmed  or 
Hussein." 

••  Does  Vernon  say  not  ?  "  Meriem  asked,  all  fluttering. 

'•  No,"  Le  Marchant  answered,  crushing  down  her  poor  heart 
at  once  of  deliberate  purpose,  for  he  knew  no  possible  good  would 
come  to  her  of  that  painful  illusion.  '•  I  say  so  m}self,  because 
T  takfi  a  friendly  interest — a  very  friondly  intprest—in  your  life 
and  happiness,  Meriem,  I  want  to  look  up  your  En.-i^lish  friends. 
If  I  found  them  out,  would  you  care  to  go  and  hve  in  England  ?  " 

"  Not  alone,"  Meriem  answered,  with  a  promptitude  which 
clearly  shewed  she  had  already  asked  herself  that  leading 
question.  "When  Yusuf  used  to  take  me  on  his  knee,  and  tell 
me  about  England  long  ago,  1  always  thou,':jht  I  should  like  to 
go  there,  if  only  he  could  go  with  me.  And  since  I  have  seen 
you  and  Vernon,  Eustace,  and  heard  all  about  it,  I've  often 
fancied  I  should  hke  to  go  there  if  only — if  only  I  had  any  one 
to  take  care  of  me  and  take  me  there.  But  it's  so  far  across  the 
sea,  and  the  people  over  yonder  are  all  infidels — not  that  I'm 
quite  so  afraid  of  infidels  now,  either,  since  I've  seen  so  much 
more  of  you  and  Vernon." 

••  Why  wouldn't  your  father  take  you  there,  Meriem  ?  " 

Meriem  opened  her  large,  brown  eyes  very  wide  with  astonish- 
ment. 

"  They  would  have  put  him  in  prison,  of  course,"  she  said, 
with  decision.  "  It  was  for  fear  of  that  that  he  ran  awa),  and 
became  a  Kabyle.  None  of-  the  infidels  seemed  to  like  him. 
The  French  would  have  shot  him,  and  the  English  would  have 
imprisoned  him.     I  think  there  must  have  been  feuds  between 


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the  tribes  in  England,  iuad  that  his  tribe  moit  baye  been  angry 
with  him,  and  cast  him  off,  for  he  told  me  his  family  wonld  have 
nothing  to  say  to  him.  But  I  like  the  English  very  much  for 
those  three  things ;  that  Yusuf  was  English,  and  that  the 
English  were  kinder  to  my  father  than  the  French,  and  that — 
that  you  and  Vernon  are  Englishmen,  Eustace." 

Le  Marchant  looked  at  her  with  profbund  pity.  He  couldn't 
bear  to  think  this  strong  and  guileless  nature  should  be  cast 
away  as  a  beast  of  burden  for  some  wretched  Eabyla  like  Ahmed 
or  Hussein. 

'•  Is  there  nobody,  Meriem,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  who  can  tell 
me  anything  more  about  your  father  ?  " 

Meriem  reflected  for  a  moment  in  silence.  Then  she  answered 
somewhat  doubtfully,  *•  If  anybody  could  tell  you,  it's  the  Pere 
Baba." 

••  And  who's  the  Pere  Baba  ?"  Le  Marchant  went  on  eagerly. 

."  He's  a  priest,  a  Christian,  a  missionary,  they  call  him,  down 
at  St.  Cloud,  in  the  valley  there.  St.  Cloud,  you  know,  is  where 
the  colonists  are.  It's  a  wicked  place,  all  full  of  Frenchmen, 
■^usuf  would  never  go  down  to  the  village,  for  fear  the  people 
who  lived  there  should  learn  his  French  name,  and  then  they'd 
have  shot  him.  But  the  Pere  Baba  and  the  Pere  Paternoster 
used  sometimes  to  come  up  to  see  Yusuf,  and  my  father  was  fond 
of  the  Pere  Paternoster,  and  told  him  many  things.  Our  people 
were  angry  at  this  often,  and  used  to  say  to  him,  *  Yusuf,  you're 
a  Christian  still  at  heart,  and  you  confess  to  the  priest  and  say 
prayers  with  him ;  "  but  Yusuf  always  answered,  *  No,  not  so  bad 
as  that;  I  only  see  the  Pere  Paternoster  as  a  friend,  and  on 
matteij  of  business.'  And  once,  before  the  Pere  Paternoster 
was  dead,  my  father  fastened  this  charm  round  my  neck,  and 
told  me  the  Pere  Paternoster  had  given  it  to  him,  and  to  be  very 
careful  that  I  never         it." 

••  What's  in  it  ?  i>-.ty  I  see?  "  Le  Marchant  went  on,  lay- 
ing hold  of  it,  eagerly.  But  Meriem  drew  back  arid  started 
almost  as  if  she'd  been  shot. 

••  Oh,  no,"  she  cried,  ••  not  that,  not  that  I  Anything  but 
that  ?     Why,  I  wouldn't  let  even  Vernon  open  it." 

"  And  what  makes  you  like  Vernon  so  much  better  than  me  ?  " 
Le  Marchant  asked,  half  hurt  by  her  innocent  frankness. 

Meriem  m»<h  no  attempt  to  parry  the  charge.  "  Who  knows  ?  " 
ghe  answered,  with  both  graet^ful  anns  an(i  hands  spread  open 
before  her.     "Who  can  tell  whai   uiaiiea  one's  heart  go  so  ? 


W!^gmm^!t!j.,,.  :.i;' -■"«:;."' '<i^?,€:5S^f!!S^i^'*^ 


tax   TXNT8   07   BHXU. 


but 


?" 


Who  can  give  any  reason  for  all  these  things  ?     ,    ,   ',   ,    He 

paints,  and  he  talks,  and  he's  beautiful,  and  I  hke  him I 

hke  you,  too,  Eu^'tace  ;  oh,  ever  so  mnch  ;  I  never  liked  any- 
body else  so  much  before,  except  lutsuf;  but  I  hke  Vernon 
differently  ;  quite,  quite,  differently.  ....  You  know  how  I 
meab.  You  must  have  felt  it  yourself.  ....  But  I  can't  stop 
now.  I  muflt  go  on  with  my  milk.  The  other  people  in  the 
village  will  be  waiting  for  tlieir  eous-mits.  Don't  be  angry,  like 
the  Kabyles,  because  I  like  Vernon  besL  This  evening  again, 
we  shall  leu^'n  Kabj'le  tu^ulLef," 


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100 


XUK   'SilM'lii  UV 


CHAPTER  XV, 


AN    OASIS    OF   OIVa,ISATTO!f. 

•'^^EKNON.'"  Le  Marchant  called  out,  with  a  sudden  resolve 
'•I'm  otf  to  8t.  Clou.l.  I've  a  reason  for  going  to-day.  Wii 
you  come  along  on  with  me  ?  " 

••  All  right,  Euotace,  if  you'll  juf^t  wait  till  I've  finisliod  was!' 
ing  out  m\  sky,"  the  painter  answered,  brisklv.    They  liar'  pick 
up  the  trick  of  calli^'g  one  another  by  their  Gnristian  names  fron 
Merieni's  example,  and  it  bad  now  grown  with  them  almost 
habitual. 

Hitherto,  the  two  new-comers  had  intentionally  avoided  tlu' 
dissipations  of  St.  Cloud,  not  being  anxious  to  study  life  in  its  \ 
peculiar    outlying    Algerian   development,   among   the   remote 
corners  where  a  few  ardent  pioneers  of  civilisation  diffuse  the 
blessings  of  European  culture  over  a  benighted  land  by  congrc 
gating  together  to  drink  bad  absinthe  under  the  eye  of  the  suii 
l)efore  the   bare  mud  platform  of  a  fourth-rate  esUunbu't.  ■   But 
low  that  the  chance  of  finding  out  something  definite  about 
VIeriem's  parentage  drew  Le  Marchant  on,  he  was  ready  to  face 
oven  the  wooden  houses  and  malodorous  streets  of  tlje  dirty  new 
village  in  search  of  trustworthy  news  as  to  their  strange  &c 
quaintance. 

It  was  a  long  and  weary  tramp,  over  hill  and  dale,  amoii; 
wooded    ravines,    and    across  rocky   ledges  ;  but    before    twelvi 
o'clock   the  two  young  men   had  reached  the  mih'tary  track  froi 
Fort    NutioiiHl    to   Si.    C/lou(l.  and   ibund  themselves  at  once,  tt 
,li(Mr  gii'ai   >in|>nsH,  m  a  fine  and  s])h'ndidly  engnieered  F^roncl 
uuiiwfiy.      11.1  \   h;i(l  scarcely  Struck  upon  it.  moreover,  when,  ti 
iiiMr  still   u;i<';!L('i    astonishment,  ainl   no  little  amusement,  the , 
aiiic,   full   m   lace,  ii;  on  a  mincing  little  Frenciiwomau,  attired 
,ifter  the  very  latest  P;ins  fashion,  in  a  frivolous  frock,  a  jaunty 
jacket,  and  a   vohitile   hat  of  woixlrous  arch/itecture.     She  was 
thirt_\  :fivH  and  skittish,  with  high-heeled  hoots  and  an  attenuate'' 
wai-'    ntteiiy  iin;iil!i]>te(l  to  the  pnictical  necessities  of  a  bare  an 
U\..i       \       n.iii  iii^n  r(»;i(l.      On  either  side  of  her,  with  clankin, 
•*purs.    |)iu;tii  u    mihtiiry    gentleman  of  youthful  years  but  porth 
dimensions ;  while   Madame   in   the   midst,  with   her  graceful 


:■*■"(».  fB|;.«WL",,"F 


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101 


resolve 
f,     Wii 

'(\  was]' 
f'  pick, 
les  froii 
almost 

ided  tlic 
fe  in  its 

remote 
use  thf 
congrc 
tlie  SUl; 
«.  Bui 
e  about 

to  face 
■ty  ne\\ 
uye  ar 

amoii; 

t\V«lV( 

k  froi 
rjce,  t( 
'Vonc) 
K^n,  t( 

ittirod 
aiiiit\ 

luatf." 
e  aji 
nk'iii, 
»ortl\ 
ujeful 


I 


parasol  held  eoqnettishly,  now  on  this  side,  now  on  thal^  chatted 
a£fably  to  both  in  iutermittent  gurgles  with  aUernattf  Bowi  of 
most  Parisian  loveliness. 

"  C'est  Madame  V Administratiee"  the  dirty-robed  Kabylo.  who 
liad  come  with  them  to  show  them  the  way,  murmured  softly  in 
their  ears,  with  a  low  bend  of  his  body,  as  the  lady  approached 
them.  He  had  Hved  at  St.  Cloud,  and  knew  some  words  of 
French.  L-e  Marchant  and  Blake  raised  their  liats  as  the  lady 
passed,  after  the  French  fashion  in  country  places,  and  would 
have  gone  on  without  stopping,  half  abashed  at  tlieir  dusty  and 
way  worn  condition,  had  not  Madame  brought  them  to  with  a 
lively  broadside  across  their  bows,  so  to  speuk,  of  **  Bonjour, 
Messieurs." 

"  Bonjour,  madame,"  Le  Marchint  answered,  saluting  again, 
and  still  anxious  to  pass  on ;  but  still  the  lady  stooped  him. 
^  "  You    are    the    English    artists,   messieurs,   of  whom  our 
indigenes  told  us,  who  have  pitched  a  camp  on  tlie  hills  of  the 
Beni-Merzoug,  n'est-ce  pasf  "  she  asked,  condescendingly. 

"  My  friend  is  a  painter,"  Le  Marchant  answered,  with  a  wave 
of  his  hand  towards  his  blushing  companion ;  "1,  myself,  am  a 
naturalist ;  and  we  are  certainly  camping  out — but  with  one  tent 
only,  madame — at  the  Beni-Merzoug  village." 

The  lady  pouted,  or  rather,  which  is  quite  another  tiling,  elU 
faisait  la  moue,  an  accomplishment  as  indescribable  as  unknown 
in  English.  ••  Can  you  be  unaware,  messieurs,"  she  said,  with 
a  smile  of  mingled  reproach  and  gentle  forgiveness,  "  that  it  is 
the  custom  in  the  colony  for  all  new  comers  in  the  arrondissement 
of  St.  Cloud  to  pay  their  respects  the  first  to  M.  I'Administrateur 
and  to  m}  self  at  the  Fort  ?  We  have  long  been  expecting  you 
to  do  us  the  honour  of  making  us  a  formal  visit.  D'ailleurs,  we 
are  not  sO  well  off  for  agrements  in  these  trackl(>sS  wilds  " — she 
gazed  straight  ahead  along  the  bare  and  well-mmle  French  road 
before  her,  with  a  vacant  air — ♦*  that  we  can  atford  to  lose  the 
agreeable  society  of  an  English  painter  and  an  English  savant." 
She  looked  up  and  smiled.  "  I  adore  art,  and  I  reverence  science 
— at  a  distance." 

**  Not  trackless,  quite,  madame,  however  wild,"  one  of  her 
escort  murmured  with  gentle  reproof,  looking  in  front,  in  his 
turn,  at  the  magnificent  gradients  of  the  sloping  road,  with 
paternal  pride.  He  was  an  officer  of  the  Oenie,  and  he  felt  his* 
department  unduly  depreciated  by  madame's  reflection. 

"  Forgive  us,  madame,"  Le  Marchant  answered,  somewhat 
abashed  by  this  open  attack  upon  his  character  for  pohteuew. 


101 


\ 


ffBa  TEMT8  Oy  IRBU. 


"  We  are  strangers  in  the  land,  and  to  say  the  truth,  we  scarcely 
expected  at  Bt.  Cloud  the  charm  of  female  society.  Besides,  you 
do  us  far  too  much  honour.  We  are  simple  students,  each  in  his 
own  art,  and  we  have  scarcely  brought  with  us  in  our  rough-and- 
ready  camp  the  necessary  costume  for  appearing  in  fitting  dress 
at  European  functions.  We  could  hardly  venture  to  present 
ourselves  thus  before  you." 

As  for  Blake,  all  awe-struck  at  the  high*heoled  boots  and  the 
Parisian  hat,  he  left  the  conversation  entirely  in  the  competent 
hands  of  the  naturahst.  His  French,  such  as  it  was,  forsook 
him  forthwith.  Indeed,  the  commonplaces  of  the  Ollendorffian 
dialect  would  here  have  stood  him  in  very  poor  stead.  He  felt 
he  could  not  insult  so  grand  a  lady  at)  Madame  I'Administratrice 
by  addressing  to  her  casual  and  fortuitous  remarks  about  la 
femme  du  jardinier  or  lejila  du  menumer, 

Madame  bowed  a  condescending  little  bow. 

♦•  In  consideration  of  your  contrition,"  she  said,  "  and  your 
implied  promise  of  future  amendment,  monsieur,  absolution  is 
granted  you.  You  see  my  generosity.  You  were  coming  to  visit 
as,  of  course?  Well,  then,  M.  le  Lioutonant,"  to  the  elder  of 
her  companions,  "we  will  turn  round  and  accompany  these 
gentlemen  back  to  the  Fort." 

Le  Marchant  hesitated.  He  didn't  wish  to  be  rude,  but  it 
went  against  the  grain  of  his  honest  nature  to  pretend  a  call  was 
meant  when  none  had  been  intended.  A  happy  thought  struck 
him,  by  way  of  a  compromise. 

"Not  in  this  tenue,  madame,"  he  said.  "  Even  in  Algeria,  we 
must  respect  lea  convenances ;  we  couldn't  think  of  calling  upon 
any  lady  in  such  a  costume.  En  ejf'et,  we  were  going  to  visit  the 
Pere  Baba." 

The  lady  sighed. 

**  Helas,"  she  answered,  "  this  is  not  Paris.  We  are  glad  to 
get  callers  in  any  tenue.  But  you  will  at  least  permit  us  to  accom- 
pany you  on  your  way  as  far  as  the  village  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  madame.  You  are  very  good.  This  is  a  charm- 
ing situation.     So,  wild,  so  picturesque-^—  I " 

*♦  And  BO  wholly  unenrlurable  1  " 

**  But  surely,  madame,  the  scenery  is  lovely,  li's  a  beautiful 
country." 

'♦  Beautiful  I  Je  vous  V accords ;  maii  vu  de  loin.  For  a  painter, 
possibly ;  but  for  a  woman,  rrwn  Dieu,  it's  too  far  from  Paris." 

••  Still,"  Blake  ventured  to  remark,  inspired  to  a  sudden  Ollen- 
dorfiEiaji  outburst  in  defence  of  the  scenery,  **  there  are  mai^ 
worse  places  than  this  in  the  world." 


■»ww 


■"■nil" 


-w 


i.uji!i     IJiuSia    Uy     bUi:.^!. 


105 


**  Perhaps  bo,"  ttte  little  woman  replied,  with  a  omshing  amil. 
"  hvitfauts  de  pire,  I'm  quite  sati.'^fied  in  that  way  with  this  one.' 

Blake  retired  in  disorder  from  the  unequal  contest.     Evenhai 
he  possessed  the  rudiments  of  her  language,  the  little  French 
woman  was  clearly  too  much  for  him  at  the  game  of  repartee. 
But  Le  Marchant,  a  bolder  spirit,  tried  once  more. 

"  You  have  lived  here  long,  madame  ?  "  he  asked,  with  his 
perfect  accent. 

"  Long  enough  almost  to  have  forgotten  the  bouleTards. 
Fifteen  years,  monsieur ;  jQgure  that  to  yourself ;  et  j»  regrette 
encore  la  cuisine  Parisienne."     She  spoke  with  pathos. 

"  That  is  indeed  constancy  I  "  Le  Marchant  replied,  with  ap- 
propriate emotion. 

♦•  Monsieur,"  thelady  retorted,  with  a  little  mock  curtsey  and 
,  an   ironical   smile,  **  it  is  your  sex,   remember,   that   has  the 
monopoly  of  fickleness." 

They  walked  on  tovv^ards  the  village,  along  the  dusty  road,  all 
five  abreast,  Madame  I'Administratrice  chatting  away  gaily  all 
the  time  in  the  same  flighty  strain  about  the  discomforts  of  her 
situation,  the  distance  from  a  really  good  milliner,  the  difficulty 
of  getting  endurable  coffee,  and,  above  all,  the  vices  and  short- 
comings of  ces  cochons  d' indigenes.  Upon  this  last  pet  subject — 
a  colonial  substitute  for  the -great  servant  question — madame, 
after  the  wont  of  Algerian  ladies,  waxed  very  warm,  and  nodded 
the  volatile  little  hat  most  impressively,  till  the  stability  of  its 
feathers  was  almost  compromised. 

♦*  Believe  me,  monsieur,''  she  said  at  last,  with  much  energy, 
stamping  her  neat  small  foot  on  the  dusty  trottoir,  "  we  shall 
never  have  peace  and  security  in  Algeria  tiU  the  French  soldiers 
join  hands  across  the  country  in  a  long  line,  and  walking  over 
hill  and  dale  together,  sweep  the  indigenes  before  them  into  the 
Mediterranean." 

♦•  C'est  vrai"  the  officer  of  the  Oenie  assented  with  a  profoundly 
convinced  nod. 

"  Strong  measures,  indeed,"  Le  Marchant  answered,  laughing. 

"  It  is  thus,  monsieur,  that  France  must  fulfil  her  civihsing 
mission,"  the  lady  repeated,  stoutly.     •*  Join  hands  in  line,  and 
march  across  the  country,  and  sweep  every  Arab  into  the  Medi 
terranean.     Le  ban  Dieu  never  made  the  world,  you  may  be  sure, 
for  those  pigs  of  Arabs." 

"  But  the  Kabyles  ?  "  Blake  asked,  with  another  gasping  effort. 

"Do  I  distinguish  between  them,  monsieur?"  madame  an- 
swered, scornfolly,   tuniiug  upon   him   with  a  anddeuneai  that 


104 


TBS    TBNTS   Of   UkSM. 


airly  friphtetied  the  painter.     •*  Eron'  mrhon  dHn(fiffsne  is  an 
Vrab  for  me.     I  make  no  fine  discriminations  between  Arab  and 
\rab.      U71  hidu/etie  e'cst  un  ituliyene.     Que  vonlez-vomi,  monsieur T 
At   thft   entrance   of  the  Httle  colony,  madame  paused  and 
■)inted. 

"  Down  that  road,  mosslonrs,"  she  said,  with  her  bland,  sraal 
uiile,  "  in  the  large  house  to  tlie  left,  you  will  find  the  Pere  Babu. 
hi  rcste,  I  am  charmed  to   have    made  your  acquaintance  so 
appily.     It  is  pleasant  to  hear  our  beautiful  language  so  well 
pokon.     We  shall  meet  again.     Ju  revoir,  messieurs.     1  receive.. 
I'ecollect,  on   Wednesdays  and  Saturdays.     You  can  no  longer 
plead  ignorance.     We  shall  expect  to  see  you  at  my  next  re 
ception." 

And  with  a  coqr.ettish  inclination  of  the  volatile  hat,  and  a 
curious  side  wriggle  of  the  frivolous  frock,  the  spoiled  child  oi 
the  boulevards,  accompanied  by  her  military  bowing  escort,  dis- 
ippeared  down  the  one  long  white  street  of  the  timber-built 
vdllage. 

Le  Marchant  and  Blake,  left  alone  by  themselves,  looked  ai 
me  another  in  silence,  and  smiled  a  broad  smile  at  this  uc- 
iixpected  apparition  amo.ng  the  wilds  of  Africa. 


wi^fi^mm'. 


TEM8   OF 


IM 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


TBI    WHITE    FATHERS. 


'•You  are  the  Pere  Baba,  monsieur?"  Le  Marchant  asked, 
with  some  misgiving  in  his  tone,  of  the  white -frocked  old  gentle- 
man in  a  plain  Arabjburnous,  who  opened  the  door  of  the  mission 
to  receive  them. 

"  My  name  in  religion  is  Brother  Geronimo,  my  son*,"  the  old 
priest  answered,  with  a  courteous  bow  ;  but  the  indiijme.»  among 
whom  I  labour — to  little  avail,  1  fear,  for  the  Propagation  of  the 
Faith  is  slow  in  Africa — know  me  better  as  the  Pere  Baba.  Will 
you  step  inside  and  refresh  yourselves  awhile  ?  V^'e  are  glad  to 
receive  you." 

In  the  bare  white  union,  vt'iih  its  little  bright-coloured  religious 
chromo- lithographs,  into  whjch  he  ushered  tljeni,  Le  Marchant 
briefly  explained  to  the  good  fatlier  the  object  of  tlieir  visit,  and 
asked  with  many  apologies  lor  such  information  as  the  priest 
.;ould  give  him  with  regard  to  a  person  who  seemed  to  be  equally 
.veil  known  either  as  Yusuf,  a  Kabyle,  or  as  Joseph  Leboutillier. 

The  grey-bearded  father  sighed  and  tapped  his  forelioad. 
•  Ah,  Le  mniime  Yumf\"  he  said,  with  a  conipassioimte  face.  V  Yes, 
yes,  I  knew  him;  I  knew  him,  of  course,  ce  /Kiurrc  nuMrahlf  d' 
Ymuh  l)Ut  yoii  come  too  late  ;  by  brother  Antoine  was  the  man 
;.:)  liave  iisKed  liiin  whom  the  nnhijiiirs  called  t.hc  I\jre  PaUT 
lOster.  lJiili;iii;>ii\,  bixaiier  Aiitnijje  hud  t.;si  )tar,  arxl  much  of 
.vhat  Vusuf  haci  lold  hiin  uied  with  liiin.  being  giv..-ii,  of  lunirse, 
under  the  sea)  (.»f  religion,  l^'or  Vusuf,  tlu;in;]i  \\v  lived  among 
the  Kabyles  aa  a  Kabyle,  and  bowed  the  kiu  e,  jnnu-  ttiti.si  dire,  in 
the  temple  of  Rimmon,  to   save  his  life,  remained  ist  heart  a 


i'4s   to    my    ^,oor 


Olifistian    to   tlie    >  nd.    and    uohii  !•  d    w.   \\\    thii 
»rotlier,  the  Pere  i\\   riiosier.      lie  li,ii    .i  mo' 
Aiitonie,  and  he  \va;<  kind  to  Vusiil',  and  went  tu  vSee  hiui  u 
lonely  hut  on  the  mouutaius  of  tiie  iieiii-Merzoug." 


106 


THK    TBNTS    Of    8BKM. 


•*  But  tell  us  at  least  as  much  as  you  know,  tron  pere^"  Le  Mar- 
chant  insisted,  "  wliatever  was  not  said  to  you  or  your  brother 
under  the  seal  of  relij^'ion." 

'•  You  come  as  friends  ?"  the  father  asked  suspiciously,  "or  for 
some  ulterior  object  ?" 

Le  March  ant  explained  in  a  very  few  words,  with  transparent 
frankness,  that  they  came  in  the  interest  of  Yusufs  daughter. 
They  knew  she  had  English  blood  in  her  veins,  and  they  wished, 
if  possible,  to  restore  her  to  her  relations,  and  to  tne  bosom  of 
Christendom. 

That  last  touch  told  with  Pere  Baba  visibly.  ••  It's  a  sad  story, 
wow  fiU,"  he  went  on,  closing  his  eyes,  and  turning  his  face 
towards  the  bare  white  ceiling,  as  he  stroked  the  beard  which  all 
missionary  priests  are  permitted  to  wear  in  virtue  of  tlieir  calling ; 
"  a  sad  story,  and  I'm  afraid  I  hardly  know  enough  about  it  to 
tell  you  accurately  anything  that  will  be  of  serious  use  to  this 
girl  Meriem.  She  calls  herself  Meriem,  I  beheve ;  ah,  yes,  I 
thought  so.  I  recollect  the  circumstances.  Well,  Yusufs  story, 
so  far  as  I  can  recall  what  Pere  Antoine  told  me,  was  something 
like  this.  He  was  an  Englishman  by  birth,  though  I  forget  his 
name — let  us  agree  that  your  guttural  English  names  are 
impossible  to  remember,  lie  came  of  a  family,  a  very  good 
family  ;  but  he  was  spendthrift  and  foolish,  though  never,  I 
believe,  wicked — jamais,  jamais  coupable.  He  told  me  so,  and  I 
always  believed  him.  P.h  him,  according  to  his  own  account, 
which  you  must  remember  is  the  only  one  I  have  heard,  his 
younger  brother,  sharing  his  embarrassments,  forged  their 
father's  name  to  certain  acceptances,  which  re  pauvre  Yusuf,  in 
a  weak  moment,  not  knowing  their  nature,  agreed  to  get  cashed 
for  him.  Yusuf  declared  to  his  dying  day  he  had  never  tlu' 
slightest  idea  they  were  forged,  and  that  his  brother  deceived  him 
For  that,  I  Imow  nothing  ;  but,  monsieur  " — and  the  old  priest's 
voice  had  a  womanly  note  of  compassion  as  he  spoke — "  1 
verily  believe  he  was  truthful,  this  unhappy  exile."  • 

"  To  judge  by  his  daughter,  I  believe  he  must  have  been,"  Le 
Marchant  interposed,  with  perfect  sincerity. 

The  i'ather  nodded.  "  Well,  the  fraud  came  to  light,"  he  con- 
tinued, "and  the  brother  shuffled  out  of  it ;  he  was  niauvais  sujet, 
this  brotlier,  Yusuf  always  assured  us.  The  evidence  all  pointed 
to  Yusuf  alone  ;  the  law  was  in  search  of  him  ;  Yusuf  lost 
00.  ragCj  and  fled  the  country.  He  took  passage  to  America  as  a 
more  blind,  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  fled  to  France,  under  an 
assumed  name,  and  never  again  darwd  to  c«mmuwicate  with  hit 
relatione." 


THX    TENT8    O^    ■HBll. 


107 


for 


"  He  fnight  have  done  so  at  least  before  he  died,"  Le  Marcbai!! 
cried,  warmly,  "  The  danger  would  then  have  been  all  past.  h\>i 
his  dnnghter's  sake,  he  ought  surely,  on  his  dying  bed,  to  hav( 
written." 

"  Monsieur,"  the  Father  answered,  with  his  eyes  still  olosofl. 
recatting  slowly  the  half-for<,'otten  facts,  ''he  never  lay  upon  hi.^ 
(lying  bed  at  all.  Had  he  died  thus,  these  things  ini<;ht  all  have 
turned  out  differently.  But  U  bon  Dieii  willed  it  otherwise.  You 
shall  hear  in  due  time  ;  for  this  was  what  happened.  Ce  paurii 
Yusuf  enlisted  in  the  Third  Chasseurs  at  Toulon,  and  was  sent 
iicross  here,  under  the  assumed  name  of  Joseph  Leboutillier,  ti 
put  down  the  insurrection  among  the  M'zabites  and  the  Kabyles 
But  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  sort  of  warfare  in  which  he  was  ti 
be  engaged,  his  heart  smote  him  ;  for  he  was  a  just  man,  Yusuf, 
though  he  had  many  failings  ;  and  let  us  ndmit,  monsieur,  that 
we  other  French  have  not  always  made  war  very  honourably,  oi 
very  justifiably,  against  these  poor  iniiiicnes." 

*'  I  fear  as  much  from  their  disposition  towards  you,"  L( 
Marchant  said,  shortly. 

•'  Well,  wluni  Yusuf  came  up  to  Grande  Kabylie,  m  effete  hi 
found  his  work  was  to  be  nothing  less  than  exterminating  tlu 
natives  and  expropriating  their  territory.  That  was  what  Yusuf, 
with  his  high  ideas,  could  never  endure.  He  hated  to  be  mad< 
an  instrument  of  what  seemed  to  him  tyranny.  So,  in  n 
skirmish  one  day  with  the  liene-Yenni  people,  he  found  himself, 
by  chance,  alone  behind  a  cju'tus  hedge,  with  the  body  of  a  dead 
Kabyle  in  the  ditch  besici-B  hi^n.  This  he  told  brother  Antoine,' 
the  old  man  said,  lookin^:  round  with  a  dubious  air,  "  and  1 
don't  know  whether  I  onght  to  repeat  it,  for  1  am  not  sure  thii! 
he  didn't  tell  it  under  th'  set;!  of  religion." 

••Continue,"    Le    Marct  a-'i  said,   with   evident   earneatnes.^ 
"It  is  tor  no  bad  purpose    'oat  we  a^k  you  to  contide  iu  u> 
What  you  say  only  interests  ra«  more  profoundly  tlian  evur  in 
this  poor  girl,  Meriem." 

"  So  he  took  the  dead  Kabyle's  burnous,"  the  priest  went  oti 
seizing  his  hearer's  arm  for  further  emphasis,  "  and  stole  awa_} 
slowly,  all  un perceived,  into  the  Kabyle  camp  as  an  honest 
deserter.  lie  made  signs  to  the  ind'ujnu'H  that  he  had  come  aa  u 
friend.  One  of  them,  a  former  Spahis,  who  had  served  i)> 
France,  and  understood  our  language,  interpreted  for  him  ;  an»i 
the  Kabyles,  glad  to  avail  themselves  of  his  superior  skill  and 
military  knowledge,  received  him  with  open  aims  and  made  hitu 
as  one  of  theiu.     It  was  thus  he  came  to  find  himdtiU  prcjcril/co 


I' 


am 


08 


tBB  tiNTi  Of  tmmu. 


Uy  two  nntinns  nt  nnce,  the  English  as  u  luiger,  and  iht  Frenol^i 
.18  a  deserter." 

••  It's  a  toucliing  story  I  "  Le  Marohant  cried,  with  emotion. 

"  Touching,  indeed,  for  the  poor  man  himself,"  the  Father 

.\ent  on,  •*  for,  hunted  down  and  terrified  for  his  hfe  as  he  w»«, 

I usuf  dared  not  return  to  civilisation  on  any  side;  he  had  no 

money  even  to  go  to  Italy  or  America,  whore  perhaps,  he  mig)»t 

liave  been  free  ;  and,  a  gentleman  bom  and  bred  as  he  was,  ht- 

')ecame  as  a  Knbyle,  earning  his  bread  by  gathering  ohves  or 

utting  corn  with  his  own  hands,  and  seeing  no  Christian  fao»' 

iiy  where  save  uiy  own  and  the  Pere  Paternoster's,  who  alon' 

ad  the  keeping  of  his  terrible  secrets.     The  Amine  of  the  Ben' 

.lerzouj,'  gave  hmi  his  sister  HaUma,  this  Meriem's  mother,  ds  a 

Niibyle  wife  ;  and  that  one  girl  was  thoir  only  child." 

"  Tliey  wore  niuiried  ?  "  Le  Marchant  asked." 

'*  After  the  Kabyle  fashion,  yes.  So  far  as  I  know,  there  w»^ 
()  other  rite.  But  Yusuf  lived  with  her  fiutlii'ully  as  a  husband, 
and  loved  her  truly — in  this,  as  in  all  other  tliiui^s,  accepting  to  the 
uli  ins  altered  situation.  He  was  a  loveable  soul,  and,  in  spi^e 
jf  everything,  one  couldn't  help  lovhig  him  ;  there  was  a  silej't 
heroism  about  the  man's  endurance  that  extorted  at  last  ono's 
highest  odnuration." 

"  And  what  became  of  him  at  last?  "  Le  Marchant  asked,  -^s 
the  Father  paused, 

"  lie  died  suddenly,"  Pere  Baba  answered,  "without  beirg 
able  to  give  Pere  Paternoster  his  dying  directions,  or  perhaps  I 
might  be  able  to  tell  you  something  more  about  his  family  r  i 
England.  His  death  was  brought  about  by  most  unhappy  cii- 
cumstanccs.  A  lew  years  since,  a  French  detective  came  up  into 
the  mountains,  and  began  to  make  enquiries  about  Joseph  Lebou- 
tillier.  The  Kabylos  heard  of  it,  and  warned  Yusuf  ;  they  felt 
sure  the  authorities  had  someho"^  'aarned  a  deserter  in  open  war 
on  active  service  was  skulking  among  their  mountains,  and  had 
determined  to  make  a  stern  example  of  him.  So  poor  Yusuf 
fled  to  a  cave  on  the  Djurjura," 

*•  Just  below  the  summit  of  Lalla  Khadidja  ?  "  Le  Marchant 
aslced,  eagerly. 

The  Fatlier  nodded.  ••  You  know  it,  then  ?  "  he  said.  "  Yes, 
the  place  was  tiiere.  He  remained  in  that  cave  in  hiding  for 
more  than  a  week,  while  the  French  detective,  an  inquisitive  fel- 
low, went  every  where  about,  peering  and  prying,  and  asking  for 
news  of  him,  under  the  pretense  that  he  wanted  it  for  a  friendly 
purpose.     But  the  Kabyles  where  too  cunning  to  be  taken  in 


TUX    TKNTI    (MT    «UJCM. 


109 


likfr  that ;  they  denied  ever  bavi.ig  heard  of  any  such  deserter. 
So  in  the  end  the  detective  went  back  again  to  Algiers  empty- 
handed,  and  poor  Yusuf,  who  had  been  supplied  with  food 
meanwhile  by  the  Eabyles,  ventured  to  coma  down  again  one 
dark  night  to  visit  his  dead  wife's  village.'* 

'•  And  then  f  "  Le  Marchant  inquired. 

'•  Why,  then,  the  weather  being  very  stormy,  and  the  rocks 
wet,  the  poor  fellow,  weak  with  exposure,  slipped  a?id  fell  on  a 
precipice  of  the  Djurjura,  and  was  taken  up  stone  dead  by  his 
friends,  and  buried  in  the  cemetery  on  the  side  of  the  mountain. 
So  that  was  how  ho  never  came  to  give  final  directions  about  his 
daughter  to  anybody  ;  and  as  Pere  Paternoster  knew  all  these 
particulars  under  the  seal  of  religion,  he  could  not  divul<i[e  ti.em 
or  claim  the  girl  for  a  Christian,  as  he  would  have  wished  to  do  ; 
so  she  has  been  brought  up  ever  since  by  the  Amine,  her  uncle." 

The  simple  story  touo.hed  Le  iVi  ,  'Uiant  profoundly.  There  was 
something  so  pathetic  in  this  r  jghly-drawn  picture  of  that 
double  outcast  flying  from  tl'f>  oflended  laws  of  two  great  coun- 
tries, one  after  the  other,  ar  '  baking  refi;^e  at  last  in  a  miserable 
rock-shelter  on  the  summit  of  a  wild  and  snow-clad  mountain, 
that  his  imaginu,tion  was  deer^y  slirred  by  the  plaintive  inci- 
dents. He  tried  to  find  out  mora  from  the  old  priest  by  ques- 
tioning ;  but  he  soon  discovered  that  the  substance  of  his  tale 
had  all  been  told,  and  that  the  Father  had  little  more  than  com- 
ment and  conjecture  to  add  to  this,  his  first  iiaaty  summary. 
Pere  Paternoster  could  have  told  more,  he  was  sure;  but  Pere 
Paternoster  was  dead  and  buried,  and  nobody  else  knew  much,  if 
anything,  about  the  whole  matter. 

They  would  have  risen  to  leave  when  the  interview  was  finished, 
but  the  Father,  with  old-fashioned  religious  hospitality,  begged 
them  to  stop  and  share  his  dejeuner.  "It  is  not  much," 
he  said,  with  an  apologetic  shrug  and  a  deprecatory  gesture 
of  his  open  palms — "  an  omelette — for  it's  Friday — and  a 
morsel  of  dried  fish,  washed  down  with  a  little  blue  wit  3  of  the 
country  ;  but  such  as  it  is,  messieurs,  I  trust  you  will  do  me  the 
honour  to  partake  of  it." 

♦*  We  shall  be  only  too  charmed,  mon  pere,'  Le  Marchant  re- 
phed,  truthfully.  •*  We  haven't  sat  down  at  a  civilised  table,  or 
eaten  bread,  or  tasted  wine,  since  we  came  to  Kabylie.  It  will 
be  a  welcome  relief  to  us  from  that  eternal  cons-cons" 

In  five  minutes,  ^.he  breakfast  duly  appeared  on  the  table — ^an 
omelette  which  might  have  made  even  Madame  TAdministratriv  j 
herself  less  poignantly  regi-el  ^jhe  Parisian  cuisine,  some  crofuetts* 


no 


TBI   TBNT8  Of  IBBM 


Mr-  - 


I 


: 


of  dry  cod  most  daintily  flavoured,  and  a  bottle  of  good  red  wine 
from  White  Fathers'  own  rich  vineyards  at  the  Maison  Carree— 
to  all  which  the  two  young  I'^nglishmen,  long  strangers  to  sucli 
luxury,  znd  inured  to  Diego's  rough-and-ready  methods  of  out 
dotr  cookery,  did  ample  justice.  The  bread,  in  particular,  was 
highly  commended — nice  white  little  pHita  pains  that  would  have 
done  honour  to  the  Viennese  bakeries  in  Paris.  Vernon  Blake 
praised  it  so  loudly,  to  the  disparagement  of  com-cmis,  tliat  when 
tliey  left  the  mission  house  the  good  father  must  needs  presn 
upon  them  the  entire  remainder  of  that  day's  batch  to  talce  hack 
with  them  to  the  village.  ••  I'll  roll  the  loaves  up  in  paper,"  he 
said,  "  and  your  Kabyle  can  carry  them.  Let  me  see ;  what 
have  1  got  in  the  way  of  a  newspaper  ?  Ah,  here's  yesterday's 
iJepeven  Ahicnennes." 

"  Better  still,"  Le  Mnrohant  said,  ••  for  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
though  we  get  lottors  occasionally  when  the  villagers  are  going 
down  to  market  at  Tizi-Ouzou,  we  haven't  seen  a  newspaper  of 
any  sort  for  the  last  six  weoks." 

So  they  returned  to  Boni-^f(»r/,ong  with  their  bread  and  their 
paper,  Le  Marchant  at  least  not  a  little  saddened  by  the  painful 
history  of  Meriem's  father. 

Meriem  herself  was  waiting  at  the  tent  to  meet  them  as  they 
returned.  '•  I  want  you  to  see  what  I  can  do,  Eustace,"  she 
cried  to  Le  Marcliant,  with  almost  childish  delight.  "  Vernon 
has  lent  me  one  of  his  books  to  try  on,  and  I  think  now  I  can 
read  English." 

Le  Marchant  took  the  hook  from  her  hand  incredulously  ;  it 
was  a  pai)er  covered  edition  of  a  popular  novel.  The  girl  glanced 
over  his  shoulder,  and,  to  his  great  surprise,  spelt  out  several 
lines,  one  after  the  other,  with  tolerable  correctness.  She  made 
a  hash  of  the  proper  names,  to  be  sure,  and  of  the  long  words 
that  did  not  as  yet  enter  into  her  now  daily-widening  English 
vocabulary  ;  but  as  to  words  that  she  knew,  she  read  them  at 
sight  with  an  ease  and  rapidity  that  fairly  took  Le  Marchant's 
breath  away. 

•♦How  on  earth  did  you  loarn  to  do  this,  Meriem?"  he  cried, 
astonished.     *•  It's  wouderl'iil  !  wonderful  I  " 

Merioiii  looked  up  at  him  with  not  unbecoming  conscious 
pride.  "  I  was  so  asliiuned  of  myself,"  she  said,  "  that  day 
when  1  couldn't  read  my  father's  English  name  in  Vernon's  pic- 
ture, that  1  made  up  my  iniiid  1  wouldn't  wait  another  day  or 
another  minute  without  beginning  to  learn  the  letters  of  my 
father's  language.    So  I  borrowed  one  of  Vernon's  books,  with- 


TUK    TKNTM    OP    8HSM. 


in 


.lU  telling  yott  about  it.  and  found  a  girl  of  our  people  who 
lould  leach  me  the  Hiiiues  of  all  the  letters,  because,  you  see, 
she'd  been  taught  by  the  priests  at  the  school  of  St.  Cloud,  and 
they're  the  same  as  the  French  ones,  though  they  sound  a  Uttle 
•  Urferent.  I  couhi  read  Kabyle  already,  of  course,  in  Arabic 
letters,  that  I  learned  for  the  Koran,  and  I  think  when  you  know 
how  to  read  one  language  it  must  always  be  easy  to  read  any 
other  one.  Besides,  I  thought  I  should  be  ashamed  not  to 
know  if  ever — well,  if  ever  I  should  happen  to  go  to  England." 

Le  Marchant  smiled  a  pitying  smile,  and  answered  nothing. 

"  Besides,  the  book  itself  is  so  interesting,"  Meriem  went  on, 
in  an  ecstasy.  "  It  tells  you  about  how  people  Uve  in  England. 
And  now  that  I've  read  it,  do  you  know,  Eustace,  I  think  I 
should  like  to  live  in  England  ;  the  people  seem  all  so  peaceable 
and  good  there." 

•♦  Why  didn't  you  tell  Vernon  first  ?  "  Le  Marchant  asked,  with 
a  sidelong  glance  at  the  beautiful  girl. 

Meriem  hesitated.  "  Because  ....  I  don't  know  why  .  .  . 
I  can't  explain  it  ...  .  but  somehow  I  was  shy  of  telling 
Vernon." 

There  was  a  long  pause  during  which  neither  of  them  said 
anything  to  one  another.  Then  Le  Marchant,  raising  his  eyes 
unsteadily  from  the  ground  with  a  stifled  sigh,  said,  suddenly, 
"  Was  your  father  a  good  man,  Meriem  ?  " 

Meriem  started.  "  He  was  the  very  best  man  that  ever  lived," 
she  answered,  earnestly,  with  the  full  fervour  of  confirmed 
conviction. 

"  And  yet,"  Le  Marchant  mused,  half  to  himself,  ♦*  the  Eng- 
lish wanted  to  imprison  him  for  forgery,  and  the  French  would 
have  liked  to  shoot  him  for  desertion." 

"  Perhaps  that  was  because  he  was  so  very  good,"  Meriem 
answered,  simply.  "  Don't  you  think,  Eustace,  good  people  are 
always  the  least  understood  and  the  most  persecuted  ?  V/hy, 
even  the  blessed  Prophet  himself  had  to  fly  from  Mecca  to  avoid 
iieing  killed  by  the  wickedness  of  the  people." 

Le  Marchant  could  not  resist  an  amused  smile.  The  incon- 
'^'raity  of  the  words  on  such  English  hps  seemed  so  grotesque  as 
'uo  be  almost  ridiculous. 


^^mgm^mm^p^^^^^ 


'  .-;  .  P'i'-,:?-  -rv-'Wi.    ■■  •   'T- 


;.r?^  ' -t'^ 


111 


CHK   TONTtt   OF    HiUUi. 


No: 


CHAPTER  XVn. 


tHS    BTR^^QB    CONVEBOM, 

ON  the  platform  outside  the  village,  where  the  P)i!n)-\Ii;r/.oiig 
held  their  weekly  market,  Vernon  Blake  stood  skytching  thp 
buzzing  group  of  white-robed  natives  who  clustered  beneath  th« 
shade  of  a  great  oak  opposite,  deep  in  eager  conclave,  as  it 
appeared,  on  some  important  question  of  tribal  business.  A 
finer  subject  he  had  seldom  found.  Every  gesture  and  attitude 
of  the  men  was  indeed  eloquent ;  and  the  pose  of  the  Amine,  in 
particular,  as  he  listened  to  and  weighed  each  conflictmg  argu- 
ment, presented  to  the  eye  a  perfect  model  of  natural  an<l 
unstudied  deliberative  dignity.  Le  Marchant,  stretched  cal'e- 
lessly  at  the  painter's  feet,  had  brought  out  with  him  tlu'  copy 
oi  the  I >)'iHrhes  Algeneniifs  which  the  Pere  Baba  had  yesterday 
lent  them.  He  was  reading  it  aloud,  translating  as  he  went, 
with  but  a  languid  interest  in  the  diplomatic  rumours  and  Court 
news  which  its  telegrams  detailed  with  their  usual  tedious  con- 
ciseness, wlien,  turning  a  page  to  the  advertisement  cohnnns,  hi? 
eye  was  attracted  suddenly  by  the  appearance,  in  large  Roman 
type,  of  that  unknown  name  which  had  imprinted  itself  so  deeply 
on  their  minds  of  late,  the  English  name  of  Meriem's  father  ! 
'•  On  d^tmind^  (les  remntpifinentt,"  the  advertisement  ran,  "  sur  le 
//o;»w//' Clarence  Knyvett, /iw///rtfw." 

Le  Marcliant  could  hardly  believe  his  eyes. 

"  Look  here,  Blake,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  little  cry  of  surprise 
"just  see  what  on  earth  this  means,  will  you  ?  " 

Blake  took  the  paper  from  his  hand,  and  stared  at  it  hard. 

"What  d(  es  it  mean  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  whew.  •*  I  can't  quit(' 
make  it  out.  Two  of  them  at  once,  too  I  It's  really  ver} 
singular." 

Le  Marchant  snatched  back  the  little  sheet  from  his  friend  in 
fresh  astonishment. 

*'  Two  of  them  ?"  he  cried.  *•  Why,  so  there  are,  actually, 
And  both  wanted  to  know  the  very  same  tlungs — about  Muriem'* 
father." 


^^^P^PVP^P"iP^"PPP<PPPWPpif"<PI^^ 


mmm 


nn  nurea  ov 


*•  TruiBlato  Ihem,*'  Blake  eaid. 

And  Le  Marchant  translated  : — 

"  Information  wanted  aboat  one,  Clarence  Enyvett,  an  English- 
man,  who  is  believed  to  have  enlisted  in  the  Third  Chasseurs 
ander  the  assumed  name  of  Joseph  Leboutillier,  and  to  have 
hidden  for  some  time  as  a  deserter  among  the  Eabyles  of  the 
Djurjura.  If  he  or  his  representatives  wiU  address  themselves 
to  Iris  Kn3rvett,  16  North  Grove,  Kensington,  London,  or  to  T. 
K.  Whitmarsh,  Esq.,  Old  Square,  Lincoln's  Inn,  equally  in 
London,  they  may  hear  of  something  to  their  advantage." 

"  A  whole  romance,"  Blake  exclaimed,  with  surprise,  still 
going  on  with  his  sketching,  but  much  interested. 

"  And  here's  the  second,"  Le  Marchant  continued,  translating 
crce  more.  "  '  Any  person  who  can  supply  certain  information 
ap  to  the  death,  with  or  without  heirs,  of  Clarence  Knyvett, 
otiierwise  Joseph  Leboutillier,  formerly  a  soldier  of  the  Third 
Chasseurs,  and  supposed  to  have  died  in  a  akinnish  in  Kabylie, 
shall  receive  a  reward  of  five  hundred  francs  on  addressing  him- 
self to  the  undersigned,  Harold  Knyvett,  Cheyne  How  Club, 
Piccadilly,  London,  W.,  England."' 

"  What  the  dickens  does  it  mean  ?  *'  Blake  asked,  laying  down 
his  pencil  for  a  moment,  with  a  puzzled  air. 

"  It  means,"  the  naturahst  answered,  slowly,  "  that  Meriem 
is  the  missing  heir  to  a  great  fortune,  and  that  she  and  Iris 
Knyvett,  the  Third  Classic,  must  be  somehow  related  to  one 
another.  When  we  left  Algiers,  Sir  Arthur  Knyvett  was  still 
alive,  for  I  saw  his  name  m  Oalignani,  at  the  English  Club, 
among  the  list  of  visitors  then  lately  arrived  at  Aix-les- Bains. 
It  happened  to  attract  me  in  connection  with  Miss  Knyvett's 
success  at  Cambridge.  Since  that  time  Sir  Arthur  must  have 
died,  and  Meriem  must  he  wanted  as  his  heiress  and  representa- 
tive." 

"  Lucky  for  you  t  "  the  artist  cried,  with  a  short,  little  laugh, 
"  You  didn't  know  you'd  fallen  in  love  with  a  young  woman  of 
property  I  " 

•*  Lucky  for  you,  rather,"  Le  Marchant  retorted,  by  no  means 
so  gaily.  "  You  didn't  know  it  was  a  young  woman  of  property 
who'd  fallen  in  love  with  you." 

•*  What  shall  you  do  about  it  ?  "  Blake  asked,  after  a  brief 
pause,  when  the  first  shock  of  surprise  had  begun  to  pass  away. 

"  Write  to  England  at  once,"  the  naturahst  answered,  with 
great  promptitude. 

**  To  which  ?    To  the  fellow  who  offers  twenty  pounds  rsward* 


E'iri 


MM 


114 


VHB   TENTS   0¥   8HXM. 


I  sappos*?    If  there's  money  going  begging,  you  may  m  well 
eome  in  for  your  share  of  it  as  any  other  feUow." 

"  No,"  Le  Marchant  rephed,  shaking  hia  head  with  decision. 
•*  To  the  lady  by  all  means." 
"Why  so?" 

"  For  many  reasons.  In  the  first  place,  because  she's  a 
woman,  and  will  therefore  be  more  kindly  disposed  to  Meriem. 
In  the  second  place,  because  she  offers  no  reward,  and  I  shall 
therefore  not  sol  probably  be  suspected  of  mercenary  motives. 
And  in  the  third  place,  because,  I  don't  know  why,  I  feel 
instinctively  the  one  advertisement  means  friendliness  to  Meriem, 
and  the  other  advertisement  means  an  enemy." 

"  Qui  tient  a  son  interet,  the  Third  Classic  says,"  Blake 
remarked,  musingly,  turning  the  paper  over  again,  and  spelling 
it  out  for  himself ;  *•  while  the  other  man  .says  only  des  remeigne- 
menu  indubitables  sur  la  mort,  avec  au  sans  heriturs,  du  nomrm 
Clarence  Knyvett  ?  It  somehow  sounds  as  if  the  girl  wanted  to 
find  somebody  somewhere  to  represent  this  man  Clarence,  do- 
ceased,  and  as  if  the  other  fellow,  on  the  contrary,  was  anxious,  U 
if  possible,  to  cut  him  off  root  and  branch,  without  further  to  du 
about  it." 

"That's  exactly  how  I  read  it,"  Le  Marchant  answered,  witli 
'a  satisfied  nod.     •'  So  we'll  throw  ourselves  without  reserve  on 
Miss  Knyvett's  mercy."  * 

'*  Which  Miss  Knyvett  ?  "  ^lake  asked,  provokingly.  "  Meriom 
or  the  other  one  ?  " 

♦*  The  other  one,  you  know  quite  well,  Vernon.  Not  a  moment 
shall  be  lost.  I'll  write  this  very  day  direct  to  London." 
'•  You  think  she'll  come  in  for  Sir  Arthur's  money,  tlien  ?  " 
"No,  I  don't."  It's  impossible.  She  has  no  legal  title.  'riinCs 
why  I  propose  to  write  to  the  lady  rather  than  to  the  man.  Mr. 
Harold  Knyvett,  whoever  he  may  be,  is  certain  to  take  a  niun's 
point  of  view  about  it.  If  the  fortune's  his,  he'll  do  nothing  for 
Meriem.  We  won't  be  able  to  work  upon  his  feelings.  But  if 
it's  the  girl's — the  Third  Classic's,  I  mean — she's  pretty  sure  to 
recognise  the  tie  of  blood,  in  spite  of  everything,  and  to  make 
some  handsome  recognition  of  Meriem's  moral  claims  Mpon  her 
gene'^osity." 

"  Why  moral  claims  only  ?  "  the  painter  asked,  puzzled. 
••  Why  shouldn't  Meriem  succeed  to  the  property  in  due  course 
if  it's  really  hers  ?  You  see,  they  say  they  want  to  find  the 
heirs  of  Clarence  Knyvett  or  Joseph  Leboutillier,  who  will  hear 
of/Mmethiug  that  goes  to  thini  advantage.     Surely  a  m&u's  owu 


vv 
K 


h 


im^ 


THE   TENTS  OV  BHSM. 


116 


daughter's  his  heir — or  rather  his  heiress.  And  that's  just  what 
the  other  fellow  seems  most  afraid  of ;  for  the  thing  he  clearly 
wants  to  pay  twenty  pounds  for  is  proof  that  this  man,  Clarence 
Knyvett,  died  without  heirs,  leaving  him,  Mr.  Harold,  to  succeed 
to  the  property." 

"  Exactly  so,"  Le  Marchant  answered,  taking  in  the  situation 
at  a  glance,  with  his  clear  logical  mind.  •'  A  man's  daughter's 
his  heiress,  of  course,  at  least  for  personalty,  provided  she's  his 
(laughter  by  the  law  of  England.  But  the  law  of  England,  with 
its  usual  mediaeval  absurdity,  takes  no  account  of  anytliing  so 
unimportant  as  mere  paternity  or  hereditary  relationship  ;  accord- 
ing to  its  theory,  Meriera  here  is  in  no  way  related  to  her  own 
father.  It's  grotesque,  of  course,  but  I'm  afraid  it's  the  fact. 
From  the  point  of  view  of  the  law  of  England,  she's  a  mere  waii 
and  stray,  no  more  connected  with  her  own  family  and  her  own 
friend?  than  anybody  else  in  England  or  in  Kabylie. 

•'How  so?"  the  painter  asked,  in  wondering  surprise. 

"  Because,"  Le  Marchant  answered,  "  as  Pere  Baba  toM  us, 
her  father  and  mother  were  only  married  by  the  Kabyle  rite — 
that  is  to  say,  as  Maliommedans  marry.  Now,  Mahomniedanism 
peniiits  the  institution  of  polygamy  ;  and  though  the  Kabyles 
tlieiiisolves  are  not  practical  polygamists,  having  retained  in  that, 
as  ni  so  many  other  respects,  in  spite  of  Islam,  their  old  Roman 
and  European  habits,  yet  theoretically  at  least,  and  by  Rlahom- 
inedan  law,  a  Kabyle  has  the  rigiit  to  marry  four  wives  if  he 
pleases.  Ileiico,  according  to  the  law  of  England,  a  marriage 
with  a  Kabyle  wonum  by  the  Mahoramedan  rite  is  a  polygamous 
marriage.  Such  a  marriage  isn't  recognised  by  our  Courts — I've 
seen  the  case  tried,  and  1  know  it  t(j  be  ?o  ;  and  in  the  eye  of 
our  law,  accordingly,  Mcriein  hersti^lf  is  illugitiniate,  and  has  no 
stjrt  of  relationship  with  her  own  fatiuir." 

"  But  ii's  absurd  ;  it's  unjust !  "  Blake  cried,  in  astonishment. 

•*  What  else  do  you  expuct,"  his  couipanion  asked,  bitterly, 
"  from  the  law  of  Emilatid  '?  " 

"  Why,  look  here,"  Bhike  exclaimed  again,  with  the  ordinary 
impotent  youthful  indi-iiat ion  against  the  manifest  wrongfulness 
of  established  custom,  "  that's  such  rot,  you  know.  There's  no 
'-ort  of  question  of  poljyaniy  in  it  at  all.  Doesn't  Shakespeare 
-<ay,  '  Eet  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds  admit  impedi- 
uicnts?'" 

'*  But  Shakespeare  would  hardly  be  admitted  as  an  authority 
of  collateral  value  with  Blackstone  in  an  En^jlish  Court,"  Le 
Marchaiit  answered,  with  a  bitter  smile. 


116 


TBI  TINT!  Of  IBBM. 


.  '-t: 


"  Well,  take  it  by  common  sense,  then,"  Vernon  Blake  went 
on,  excitedly.  "This  man  Knyvett,  Meriem's  lather,  took  for 
his  wedded  wife  a  Kabyle  woman,  Ilaliuia,  or  whatever  else  they 
choose  to  call  her,  by  the  law  of  thocouut/^'  iu  which  they  lived, 
and  was  faithful  to  her  only  all  the  days  of  his  lifetime,  if  that's 
not  marriage,  I  don't  know  what  is.  Ho  never  married  any 
other  wife  that  I  can  hear  of ;  and  by  tlie  Kabyle  custom  he 
couldn't,  or  wouldn't,  ever  have  done  so.  If  he  had,  Mrs.  Hahma 
would  have  brought  the  house  down  about  his  ears,  I'll  bet  you 
any  money.  These  Kabyle  women  are  unaccustomed  to  such 
proceedings.  It  was  a  monogamous  marriage,  if  that's  the  proper 
word — and  a  jolly  good  word,  too,  supposing  only  it's  in  the  right 
place — as  much  as  any  marriage  any  day  in  England.  Hang  it 
all,  if  that's  Enghsh  law,  you  know,  1  don't  think  very  much  of 
the  wisdom  of  our  ancestors." 

•'  Nevertheless,"  Le  Marchant  repHed,  with  a  serious  face, 
♦•I'm  quite  sure  I  represent  it  correctly.  The  marriage  being 
contracted  under  Mahommedan  law  is,  ipaojavto,  a  polygamous 
marriage,  whether  a  second  wife  be  taken  or  not,  and,  as  such,, 
it's  not  recognized  for  a  marriage  at  all,  in  the  Christian  sense, 
by  the  law  of  England.  Meriem  iu  therefore  not  legitimate,  and 
not  Clarence  Knyvett's  heiress  at  all.  bo  what  we've  got  to  do 
on  her  behalf  is  merely  to  interest  Miss  Iris  Knyvett  in  her  as 
far  as  practicable,  and  to  make  the  bust  ti.rins  we  can  possibly 
make  for  her.  For  my  part,  I  shall  be  satjslied  if  tne  result  ol 
the  incident  is  merely  to  establish  comnjunicatioiis  betvveeii 
Meriem  and  her  English  relatives,  and  so,  [jerhaps,  m  the  end. 
to  save  the  poor  girl  from  the  hateful  fate  of  being  haruled  over, 
bound  hand  and  toot,  to  either  Ahmed  or  Hu.ssem;  to  prevent 
that,  1  would  do  almost  anytlinig." 

*'  Even  to  marrying  ner  I  "  cried  IJlake,  lightly. 

•♦  Even  to  niairynig  her  I  "  Le  Marchant  repiuted  with  a  si<:li 
As  it  It  were  so  tiusy  a  tlniig  to  uiiirry  Aleiiein. 

"And  will  )oii  t^'U  Miss  Knyviittiill  this'/  "  Hlake  asked,  a.l.i 
a  moment.  1  lueaii  auoul  the  umrnage  being  polygainuus,  <tiiu 
so  forth  ?  " 

"  (Jtii;unly  not  I  "  Le  Marclinnt  said,  wiLli  umch  firmness. 
"Let  them  find  out  all  that  lor  tiuuasulvey,  if  they  will.  Air.  I. 
K.  Whilniarsh,  of  Old  Square,  Lmt'oln-'s  inn,  whoever  Ue  ma) 
be,  may  be  salel}  trusted  to  arrive  at  that  conclusion  fast  encjugl. 
for  himself.  1,  for  my  part,  holil  a  brief  tor  Menem,  uinl  whav 
1  wtuii  iti  merely  to  enlist  jour  i'hird  ClatisiC  a  sj  Uij^^alhy  ati  much 


iiess. 

ir.  r. 

ma) 

VvliUi 


mmf^ 


nnmi  or  iBiii. 


in 


aa  I  can  on  her  behalf.  I  shall  dwell  only  upon  the  blood -rela- 
lionship,  and  on  her  goodness  and  beauty,  and  on  the  hunted- 
down  hfe  of  that  poor  man,  her  father.  I  shall  try  to  make 
Miss  Enyvett  feel  that  the  girl  (as  I  suppose)  is,  after  aU,  at  least, 
her  cousin." 

•*  Work  upon  her  feeUnga,  in  short,"  the  painter  suggested, 
smiling. 

•♦  Work  upon  her  feelings,  if  she's  got  any,"  Le  Marchant  re- 
sponded, with  a  hurried  glance  towards  the  Amine's  cottage  ; 
*•  let  her  know  that,  though  she  may  be  a  Third  Classic  at  Cam- 
bridge, there's  one  of  her  own  blood  and  kith  and  kin  over  here 
in  Grande  Kabylie  who's  as  fine  and  as  grand  and  fis  noble- 
minded  a  woman  as  she  can  be  any  day.  That's  why  I  mean  to 
write  to  the  girl  herself  and  not  to  the  lawyer,  who,  of  course,  as 
a  man  of  business,  would  have  no  bowels  of  compassion  to 
speak  of." 

"  My  dear  Le  Marchant,  your  infatuation  about  that  girl's  be- 
coming really  ridiculous,"  Vernon  Blake  said,  laughing.  ••  It's 
a  good  thing  for  her  that  it's  you,  not  me," — yes,  dear  Mr.  Critic, 
he  said  ms  instead  of  /,  and  I  won't  take  it  upon  me  to  correct 
his  grammar — •*  who  have  to  write  to  Miss  Knyvett  about  her. 
/  couldn't  say  so  much  in  her  favour." 

••  Perhaps  not,"  Le  Marchant  answered,  a  little  contemptuously. 
And  he  remembered  those  pregnant  words  of  a  great  thinker, 
«  Ea.ch  man  sees  in  the  universe  around  him  what  each  mim 
brings  the  faculty  of  seeing." 


-.r:>5re"y?5r 


\s 


Ui 


THE  fSMTS  or   gHUC 


CHAPTER  XVin. 


FRIENDS   IN   OOUNOIL. 

YsRMON  Blake's  sketch  of  the  white-robed  natives  under  the 
tree  opposite  was  a  lively  and  vigorous  one  ;  as  well  it  might  be, 
indeed ;  for  could  the  two  young  Englishmen  only  have  heard 
and  understood  the  conversation  that  was  passing  in  low  Kabyle 
whispers  between  those  idyllic-looking  men  under  the  shady  oak- 
boughs,  their  hearts  might  have  stood  still  within  them  for 
horror.  The  South  plays  with  death  and  blood.  The  Kabyle 
village  council,  in  open  air  moot  under  the  sacred  oak  assembled, 
was  debating  in  full  form  no  less  high  and  important  a  question 
of  policy  than  the  total  extinction  of  French  rule  in  Eastern 
Algeria. 

**  Then  all  we  have  to  do  ourselves,"  the  Amine  was  remarking, 
in  soft  earnest  tones,  as  Blake  jotted  him  down  with  upstretched 
arm  so  vividly  in  his  sketch-book,  "  is  to  kill  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  of  the  infidels  down  yonder  at  St.  Cloud,  with  Allah's 
blessing.     The  rest  we  may  leave  to  the  tribes  to  accomphsh." 

"  That  is  all  we  have  to  do,  son  of  the  Faithful,"  the  eldest 
marabout  answered,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  towards  the  high 
mountains.  "  The  Beni-Yenni  and  the  Aith-Menguellath  will 
take  care  for  their  part  to  crush  out  the  garrison  up  above  at 
Fort  National." 

**  You  are  fools  to  try,"  a  strong  and  stalwart  middle-aged 
Kabyle  in  a  red  hood,  standing  a  little  apart  from  the  group  by 
himself,  remarked  quietly,  with  a  sneer  on  his  face.  ♦'  The 
French  can  crush  you  as  a  camel's  foot  crushes  ants  in  the 
desert.  They  crushed  you  so  in  the  disgrace  of  1251 " — for  by 
that  name  the  great  but  abortive  insurrection  of  1870  is  univer- 
sally known  to  the  Moslems  of  Algeria.  -t 

•*  Hark  at  Amzian !  "  the  Amine  cried,  contemptuously. 
"  He's  half  an  unbeliever  himself,  I  know,  because  he  was  a 
Spahi^,  and  served  in  France.  The  women  of  the  infidels  made 
great  eyes  at  him.  They  have  shaken  his  faith.  He  puts  no 
trust  in  Allah.  He  is  always  discouraging  the  true  believers  &om 
uxj  attempt  to  recover  their  freedom.*' 


tmm 


^mmf 


TSNTS    or    6HKM. 


\IV 


••  I  am  no  infidel,"  Arabian  answered,  angrily,  with  a  toss  of 
his  head,  folding  his  burnous  around  hiin  with  pride,  as  he  spoke. 
"I  am  no  infidel;  I  am  a  true  Moslem;  the  Prophet  has  no 
more  faithful  follower  tliati  me  ;  but.  I  have  been  to  France,  and 
I  know  the  French,  how  many  they  are.  Tlieir  swarms  are  as 
locusts,  when  plague-time  comes.  They  would  crush  you  as  the 
camel  crushes  ants  in  the  sand.  Why,  the  people  in  Paris  alone, 
I  tell  you.  Amine,  are  like  flies  on  the  carcase,  more  numerous 
than  all  the  tribes  in  Kabylie." 

"  Allah  is  g.  eat,"  the  Amine  retorted,  piously.  "  The  least 
among  His  people  are  stronger,  if  it  be  His  will,  than  thousands 
of  infidels." 

"He  didn't  help  us  in  1251,"  Amzian  suggested,  with  somt 
reserve. 

•'  Ay,  but  the  time  has  now  come,  so  the  marabouts  say,**  the 
Amine  responded,  with  a  rapid  glance  towards  one  of  them, 
"  when  Islam  is  to  rise  all  together  in  its  might  against  the  hordes 
of  the  infidel.  Has  it  not  come  to  your  ears,  unbeliever,  how 
the  Christians  have  been  driven  by  the  Mahdi  out  of  the  Soudan  ? 
How  the  enemies  of  the  Faith  hardly  hold  Suakira  ?  How  Khar- 
toum has  been  taken  by  the  hosts  of  Allah  ?  The  day  of  the 
great  deliverance  is  at  hand.  Islam  shall  no  longer  obey  the 
dogs  of  Christians." 

"  We  shall  never  drive  the  dogs  of  Christians  out  of  Kabylie," 
the  sceptical  Amzian  murmured  once  more,  with  secular  hard- 
headedness,  "  as  long  as  the  French  are  drilled  and  armed,  and 
officered  as  they  are,  while  we  are  but  a  horde,  and  as  long  as 
they  hold  the  keys  of  Fort  National." 

*'  Let  us  ask  Hadji  Daood,"  the  Amine  ejaculated,  much 
shocked  at  such  rationalistic  latitudinarianism.  "  He  has  been 
to  Klecca,  and  has  seen  the  world.  He  knows  bettor  than  anv 
of  us,  who  stay  at  home  in  Kabylie,  whether  these  things  are  so 
or  not." 

The  meeting  applauded  with  a  silent  clicking  of  some  fifty 
tongues.  The  intimate  knowledge  of  French  internal  affairs  to 
be  acquired  during  a  coasting  voyage  from  Bougie  down  the 
Tunis  seaboard  to  Alexandria  and  Jcddah,  naturally  gave  the 
Hadji's  opinion  no  little  weight  upon  this  abstruse  question. 

"  Hadji  Daood  ben  Marabet,"  the  Amine  said,  solemnly,  inter- 
rogating the  old  man  as  a  new  Parliamentary  hand  might  inter- 
rogate a  veteran  of  many  Sessions,  "  do  you  think,  or  do  you  not 
think,  the  French  are  so  very  strong  that  they  could  crush  us  as 
a  camel  crushes  a  desert  ant-hill  ?  " 


n 


120 


tBM   TfiNTS   OJr   BUttU, 


Hadji  Daood  ben  Marabet  wagged  his  grey  old  head,  solemnly, 
in  the  sight  of  the  meeting,  till  the  caftan  nearly  fell  off  his 
bald  shaved  pate.  *•  1  have  been  to  Mecca,  Amine,"  he  atiswered, 
with  infinite  dignity,  "  and  seen  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  and 
all  their  glory  ;  and  this  is  the  word  I  have  to  tell  you  :  the  might 
of  the  inRdel  is  as  dust  in  the  balance  to  the  might  of  the  faitli- 
ful  and  the  servants  of  Allah." 

The  Amine  glanced  triumphant  at  the  annihilated  Amzian, 
who  retired,  abashed,  into  the  shade  of  his  burnous.  "  But  the 
French  are  so  strong,"  he  murmured,  still,  with  the  native  irre-* 
pressibihty  of  the  born  heretic,  ♦*  that  they  will  crush  us  all  out 
as  they  crushed  out  Mokrani,  who  fought  against  them  in  the 
great  insurrection." 

The  Amine  took  no  more  notice  of  the  discomfited  and  dis- 
credited ex- European  soldier.  Why  should  he  give  himself  such 
airs,  indeed,  and  pose  as  an  authority,  merely  because  he  had  been 
beaten  at  Sarrebrouck  and  at  Gravelotte  ?  "  It  is  clear,  then," 
the  Amine  said,  continuing  hia  discourse,  "  that  Allah  is  going 
to  dehver  the  infidels  into  the  hands  of  His  people.  Our  part 
in  the  work  is  to  attack  St.  Cloud,  and  slay  every  man,  woman, 
and  child — but,  above  all,  to  kill  Madame  TAdministratrice." 

"  Why  her  in  particulai  ?  "  Ahmed  asked,  with  a  smile.  •*  Is 
she  so  much  worse  than  all  other  Christians  ?  " 

•'  She  is  a  Christian,"  the  Amine  answered,  "  and  that  alone 
should  suffice.  When  the  marabouts  proclaim  a  Jehad,  a  holy 
war,  every  Christian  in  Islam  is  alike  our  enemy.  But  the 
woman  o.  the  high  heels  is  the  worst  of  them  all.  Was  it  not 
she  who  called  us  *  pigs  of  Kabyles  ?  '  Was  it  not  she  who  des- 
troyed the  shrine  of  the  great  saint.  Si  Mohammed  Said  with  the 
Two  Tombs,  to  erect  in  its  place  a  dancing  pavilion  in  her  own 
garden  ?  Was  it  not  she  who  forbade  our  women  to  come  and 
weep  on  Fridays  at  the  spot  where  the  blessed  Sheikh  El-Haddad, 
the  blacksmith,  poured  out  his  great  Ufe  for  Kabylie  and  Islam, 
because  their  wailing  interrupted  her  peace  when  she  read  the 
vile  books,  full  of  orgies  and  wickedness,  she  brings  over  from 
Paris  ?  " 

"  And  when  our  people  would  have  taken  the  stones  of  the 
shrine  to  erect  them  again  here  at  Beni-Merzoug,"  Hadji  Daood 
cried,  doddering,  •♦  it  was  the  woman  of  the  high  heels  who 
refused  to  give  ub  them,  because  she  wanted  the  tiles  from  the 
holy  place  to  adorn  her  bed-chamber,  and  the  carved  marbld 
frcmi  the  pillars  and  the  coping-stone  to  make  the  bafle  ol  her 
wanton  summor-boasa.** 


tEM  TZIITI  OY   SHXM. 


121 


"Therefore  for  this,"  the  Amine  went  on,  piously,  with  a 
fiolemu  rmg,  '*  we  will  dash  out  the  brains  of  the  woman  with 
the  high  hoels  against  the  marbje  parapet  of  her  own  lummer- 
house,  and  give  her  bones  to  the  jackals  to  eat  on  the  site  of  tlio 
shrine  of  Si  Mohammed  Said." 

*•  And  every  soul  that  lives  in  her  house,"  the   llfldji  droned 
out,  waxing  stronger  with  the  excitement,  •'  we  will  kill  and  des- 
troy in  honour  of  Allah  and  of  Mohammed  His  Prophet." 
•'  So  be  it,"  the  Amine  assented,  with  a  grave  nod. 
The  Kabyles  around  bent  their  heads  to  the  ground  in  token 
of  approval. 

*'  Hush  I  "  the  Amine  cried,  in  an  authoritative  voice,  looking 
round  him  suddenly,  and  perceiving  a  diversion.  "  The  spirit 
of  prophecy  has  come  over  the  marabout." 

As  he  spoke  a  marabout  stood  out  for  one  monunit  from  the 
busy  throng,  his  eyes  wild  and  fierce,  and  his  mouth  foaming. 
He  turned  himself  round  once  or  twice  slowly,  on  one  foot  as  a 
pivot ;  then  waxing  faster  and  faster  as  the  exciti'iiient  iiioruaKcil, 
he  whirled  round  and  round  violently  for  sevcnii  minutes,  witli 
a  rapid  and  angry  swaying  movement.  At  lust  lie  paused,  looked 
round  him  in  ecstasy,  and  drove  a  pin  throngli  his  outstretched 
tongue  with  a  face  free  from  all  signs  of  pain  or  emotion.  As 
they  looked  he  began  to  recite,  deep  liown  in  his  throat,  a  sort  of 
dioning  song  in  a  long,  irregular,  native  metre. 

••  The  Frenchmen  came  ;  they  said,  Bunjuur  ;  in  an   evil  day 

they  said  Good  day  to  us. 
•'The  Frencliinen  came;  they  said,  lionsoir ;  'twas  a  sleepless 

night  when  they  said  (iood  nii/lit  to  us. 
••The  Frenchmen  came;  they  said,  Mcrn  ;  we  have  little  to 

thank  tliem  for  tt'acliinjj  us  'ilntnh  yon. 
*'  The  Frenr-lnniin  came  ;  they  said  to  us,  Frcre  ;  with  brotherly 

love  they  have  kicked  and  bullied  us. 
'•The   Fre.jtelnuen   came;  they   cu!l('.(l   iis,  CorJion  ;  dogs  and 
mules  liad  more  ho.jour  tli:vn  we  h;i\e. 
The  word   of  Allah  came   to    His   marahout.i ;   Stir  up  my 
people  against  the  d(M;s  of  iiiiiiliils. 
••  Whom   shall   we   stir  up,  oh.  All    Wise,  oh.  All    Powerful  ? 
The  sons  of  the  Kabyles  against  the  sons  of  the  French- 
men. 
"  The  P>Gni-Yenni  to  the  g;ites  of  Fort  Natioiial  ;  the  lieni- 

Merzou''  to  Saint  Cloud  in  the  \allev. 
••  Slay  every  soul  in  Saint  Cloud,  ye  L>uuiMer/.uug  ;  slay,  and 
obtain  the  blessing  of  Allah. 


.CJjf-^air 


PJTT- 


122 


THE    TENTS    OP    IHEM. 


"  Slay,  above  all,   her  cf  the    lii.L,'h  heels  ;    bring  down  her 

proud  head  in  Lliu  dust  of  luir  iiighvvay. 
"Slay  every  soul  tlmt  couios  under  her  roof;  the  desecrated 

roof  of  Si  Mohiimnied  Said. 
••  Let  those  who  rohbed  my  dead  saint  be  requited ;  let  those 

who  dishonoured  his  holy  bones  be  punished. 
••  Slay,  saith  Allah,  by  the  voice  of  his  marabouts,  slay — slay 

with  the  sword  ;  kill  all,  and  spare  not." 

The  marabout  sat  down,  collapsing,  suddenly,  as  if  the  fire  of 

inspiration  had  all  at  once  been  withdrawn  from  him.     The  pin 

till  held  his  tongue  between  his  teeth.     The  foam  at  his  mouth 

WIS  reddened  with  blood.     The  Kabyles  around  looked  on  adiiin- 

iiigly. 

There  was  a  short  pause,  during  which  no  one  spoke  aloud. 
■liougb  many  whispered;  then  Amzian  the  unbelieving  asked, 
omewhat  incredulously,  "  And  when  will  you  b(!giu  this  Jehad 
Lrainst  the  infidel  ?  " 

"  That  is  as  Allah  wills,  the  Amine  responded,  bowing  his 
lead.  *'  We  will  wait  and  be  governed  by  the  event  tliat  arises, 
l!] vents  crowd  thickly  in  these  latter  days.  The  house  of  the 
infidels  is  divided  against  itself.  Have  you  not  ia'ard  that  there 
.vill  soon  be  new  wars  again  between  the  people  ul'  Oai-Oui  and 
'he  people  of  J  a- J  a  .'  " 

*•  It  is  true,"  Amzian  assented,  **  that  the  French  and  the 
iermans  are  likely  to  have  war  when  he  who  is  now  Sultan  of 
rermany  bites  the  dust  in  the  ground  before  Allah." 

"  When  that  time  comes,"  the  Anime  said,  solemnly,  *•  let 
•very  behever  draw  sword  for  Islam.'' 

"  So  be  it,"  tlie  assembly  assented,  once  more,  with  faces  all 
Mirned  of  one  accord  towards  Mecca. 

At  that  point  the  meeting  was  about  to  break  up  inroniially. 
when  Amzian,  with  a  backward  jerk  of  his  tiiui'.i),  called  atten- 
tion to  the  presence  of  strangers  ii.  the  gallery. 

**  How  about  them  1  "  he  asked,  with  a  si'itT,  indicating  by  the 
contemptuous  movement  of  his  hand  the  spot  where  Le  Marchant 
and  Blake  were  sitting. 

'*  They  are  EngUsh,"  the  Amine  replied ;  "  they  are  not 
French.  The  English  are  good.  I  know  their  mind.  My 
brother  Yusuf  was  himself  mi  Englishman." 

••  In  a  Jehad,"  Ahmed,  ^ff>^ipra'l  rejected  suitor,  remarked, 
with  the  air  of  a  man    '  inds   an    inditTorent  abstract 

principle,  "  all  infidels   .  inanded  tu  bu  lilaux,  without 

MM  or  favour,  wiUioat  Iw^  w«  w^v,.  (jLiou." 


'  i 


mmfm 


^■PMpi 


.izi^-i^;^i.:3£v 


mm  TEMTs  or  bhbm. 


128 


"  True,"  the  Amine  retorted  ;  ••  but  the  English  are  good  ;  1 
have  henrd  that  they  are  just  to  the  Moslerag  in  Egypt." 

"  When  I  waa  at  Mecca,"  i\\o  lladji  interposed,  leaning  upon 
his  staff  with  his  trembling  haiuLs,  "  I  met  many  Moslems  from 
Bind  and  Ind.  who  Bwore  by  the  Prophet's  beard  they  would  as 
soon  Hve  under  the  Sultans  of  the  English  as  under  the  Caliph 
of  the  Faithful  himself  at  Stamboul." 

"  But  if  these  infidels  find  out,  they  will  spoil  all,"  Hussein 
grumbled,  from  a  corner.  "  They  see  far  too  much  as  it  is  of 
our  women."  , 

"  Meriem  is  their  intorpreter,  and  speaks  their  tongue,"  the 
Amine  interposed,  in  deprecating  voice.  *•  They  pay  mo  well 
for  the  milk  they  buy,  arul  for  the  grain,  and  for  the  cous-cous, 
and  for  the  rent  due  for  the  site  of  their  encampment.  I  have 
given  a  fresh  coverlet  to  the  slirine  of  our  Saint  out  of  part  of 
the  rent  they  have  paid  us  for  encamping," 

"  If  this  thing  gets  about  among  the  women,"  Ahmed 
observed,  with  a  sinister  scowl,  ••  there  will  be  no  keeping  a  word 
of  it  from  the  girl  Mereim." 

"  And  if  Meriem  hears,"  Hussein  continued,  taking  up  the 
parable,  "  she  will  tell  it  all  to  her  friend,  the  painter  of  pictures." 

"  We  are  Moslems,"  the  Amine  observed,  drawing  his  burnous 
symbolically  close  around  him  in  a  manner  expressive  of  pro- 
found secrecy.  •'  We  do  not  blab  to  our  women  like  the 
Christians.  We  can  keep  our  own  counsel.  We  are  men,  not 
children  ;  of  Islam,  not  infidels." 

"Let  no  man  speak  a  word  of  all  this  to  his  wedded  wife," 
the  Hadji  cried,  raising  one  skinny  palsied  forefinger.  "  If  it 
reaches  the  French,  we  shall  know  it  was  the  English  ;  if  it 
reaches  the  English,  we  shall  know  it  was  Meriem  ;  if  it  reaches 
Meriem,  we  shall  find  out  what  traitor's  wife  has  told  her.  And 
whoever  it  is,  French,  EngUah,  or  Moslem,  they  all  shall  die. 
by  the  beard  of  the  Prophet." 

"  What  an  impressive  attitude  I  "  Blake  cried,  looking  up. 
"  He's  finer  even  than  tht  dervish  fellow  we  saw  at  Algiers.  I 
think  I'll  just  stop  and  sketch  m  i he  old  boy  while  you  gu  and 
write  the  letter,  Le  Marchani.  ' 


124 


ffU   VKNTi  Of  iUBM. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


SOUTH  WARD    BO  t 

It  was  with  conscious  pri<lo,  by  no  means  appropriate  to  ai 
political  economist  of  the  advanced  school,  fhi>.t  hiS  KnyvettI 
ibund.  herself  one  hri^'ht  November  morning  driving  up  the  slopes' 
of  Mii'Btiipha  Suporieur  in  her  own  carriage  to  her  own  villa  of, 
Sidi  Aia;  on  the  El  Biar  road,  just  above  Algiers. 

Iris  had  had  a  hard  fi|,'ht  for  it,  of  course,  with  Uncle  Tom. I 
When  Eustace  Le  Marchant'fl  letter  first  arrived,  Uncle  Tom,; 
wary  by  long  practice  in  the  Probate  and  Divorce  division, 
scented  mischief  on  the  breeze  in  the  very  tone  of  its  cautiouR; 
wording.  '•  You're  going  to  raise  up  a  Tichborne  claimant 
against  ^'oiir  own  estate,  mv  child,  exactly  as  I  told  you,"  Uncle 
Tom,  said  with  reproachful  earnestness.  "  The  man's  an  im- 
postor, or  else  a  fortune  hunter;  that's  what's  the  matter, 
Either  he's  running  this  alleged  daughter  of  yout  Unole  Clarence, 
as  a  claimant  to  the  estate  in  order  to  blackmail  you — the  Tich-: 
borne  game;  or  else  he's  running  her  for  his  own  purposes, 
meaning,  in  the  end,  to  hand  her  over  vour  property  and  then 
marry  her.  The  proof  of  it's  clear,  for  I've  taKen  the  trouble  to 
ascertain  the  fact  that  he  didn't  answer  your  cousiri  Harold's 
iuivertisenient  at  all  which  appeared  on  the  very  same  date  with 
your  own,  side  by  side,  in  the  Algerian  newspapers,  and  why 
should  the  fellow  refuse  the  offer  of  twenty  pounds  reward,  pay- 
able on  demand,  unloss  ho  had  some  ulterior  object  in  view,  I 
should  like  to  know,  Iris  ?  " 

••  Perhaps  ho  thou^'ht  mo  the  likoliost  person  to  do  justice  to 
the  girl,"  Iris  su,<^'{j;i!stod,  timidly. 

••Tut,  tut,  tut,"  Uncle  Tom  respondnd,  growing  reddei  than 
ever.  *'  Justice  to  the  girl,  indeed  I  What's  Hecuba  to  him,  or| 
he  to  Hecuba  ?  lie's  casting  a  sprat  to  uatch  a  whale  ;  that's! 
the  lon.L,'  and  the  short  of  it.  A  cock-and-bull  story  as  ever  I 
heard  in  uiy  born  days.  If  I  were  you,  my  child,  I'd  take  no 
more  notice  of  it.  If  the  young  woman  of  dusky  complexion 
and  doubtful  antecedents  choHes,to  prosecute  her  shadowy  claim, 
let  her  come  to  England — the  Courts  are  open  and  there  ara 


■^t.*^..".  '■- 


THE    TENTS   OP    81IEM. 


I2n 


{Deputies — nnd  let  liRr  prosecute  it  reasonably  by  her  attorney 
'at-law,  witii  all  the  torraahties,  in  the  ordniary  r  aimer.  Then 
jwe  shall  know  exactly  how  to  deal  with  her.  Deny  everything, 
and  insist  upon  proof.  That's  the  way  to  meet  it.  Make  her 
explain  her  father's  survival,  his  change  of  name,  his  marriage, 
his  decease,  his  unaccountable  intestacy.  Make  her  produce  her 
inother's  marriage  lines,  her  certificate  of  birth,  her  vaccination 
marks,  her  papers  generally.  Till  then  we  don't  need  to  trouble 
our  heads  one  jot  or  tittle  about  the  matter.  We  don't  want  to 
get  up  a  case  against  ourselves  for  the  benefit  of  a  su[)posititious 
young  woman  in  Africa." 

But,  unfortunately  for  Uncle  Tom,  he  had  a  clit-nt  to  deal 
with  in  this  case  who  was  not  to  be  put  off  with  foiviKsic  general- 
isations or  legal  quibbles  of  the  most  respectable  antKiuity.  "  If 
the  girl  really  exists,  and  if  she's  really  Uncle  Clarence's  daugh- 
ter," Iris  stuck  to  it  firmly,  "  llien  she,  not  I,  is  heuvss  to  the 
'State  ;  and  I  won't  rob  her,  not  even  for  you,  uncle  dear,  much 
as  1  love  you." 

♦'  Daiuihter,"  Uncle  Tom  remarked,  sententiously,  "  is  in  Eng- 
lish law  a  word  of  a  precisely  deiiniie  and  circumscribed  meaning. 
It  means,  connotes,  implies,  or  designates  lawful  female  issue  of 
jTiis  body  begotten.  And  when  we  say  lawful,  we  mean  born  in 
j^vedlock,  in  Christian  wedlock,  of  a  kind  recognised  by  Act  of 
Parliament,  or  (within  certani  limits)  by  the  lej-  tori  of  the  coun- 
try where  the  marriage  was  actually  solemnised.  Now,  suppos- 
!ing  your  Uncle  Clarence  did  really  desert,  run  away  from  his 
I'olours,  and  marry  a  young  woman  of  dusky  complexion  and 
\i6ubtful  faith,  in  some  out-of-the-way  corner  of  the  North 
[African  mountains,  that's  nothing  to  us.  The  offspring  and 
li'epresentative  of  ^the  dusky  young  woman  thus  irregularly 
annexed  has  got  to  prove,  in  the  first  place,  that  her  putative 
father,  deceased,  lived  long  enough  to  survive  your  late  Uncle 
Alexander.  If  he  didn't  do  that,  be  she  ten  times  over  his  lawful 
jdaughter,  not  a  penny  dpes  she  get  by  the  singular  terms  of  your 
'grandfather's  will — and  a  pretty  mess  your  grandfather  made  of 
it.  But  if  he  did  survive  his  elder  brother,  then  in  that  case 
'there  still  arises  the  further  question — Did  your  Uncle  Clarence 
ever  marry  the  dusky  young  woman  aforesaid,  of  North  African 
origin,  in  any  sense  recognised  by  the  Christian  religion  and  the 
common  and  statute  law  of  this  country  ?  That  he  did  so  marry 
her  is  in  the  highest  degree,  1  think,  improbable — to  put  it 
mildly,  in  the  highest  degree  improbable — and  if  he  didn't,  why 
then  and  in  that  case  the  dusky  young  woman,  number  two.  his 


/ 


126 


THK   TENTS   OF   SHEll. 


natural  offspring,  haa  nothing  more  to  do  with  yon,  bj  the  law 
of  England,  than  any  other  dusky  young  woman,  assorted,  of  the 
same  race,  place,  and  rehgion." 

But  Iris,  oddly  enough,  with  true  Knyvett  obstinacy,  held  out 
to  the  last  for  her  own  view  of  this  ethical  question.  She  boldly 
maintained,  against  so  great  an  authority  as  Uncle  Tom  himself, 
that  if  Meriem  was  Uncle  Clarence's  daughter,  then,  the  law  of 
England  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding,  Meriem  must  be  her 
own  first  cousin.  She  further  maintained  that,  as  a  biological 
fact,  a  father  and  his  children  were  indubitably  connected  one 
with  the  other  by  physical  origin.  She  refused  to  believe  that 
the  law  of  England  itself  could  possibly  annul  that  primitive 
underlying  law  of  nature.  And  she  insisted  with  incredible 
and  most  annoying  persistence  that  as  soon  as  the  weather  grew 
cool  enough  in  Africa  she  would  herself  proceed  in  person  to 
Algeria  to  see  the  girl  whom  she  believed  to  be  her  cousin,  and 
to  investigate  the  passive  claim  set  forth  on  her  behalf  to  Uncle 
Arthur's  property.  "  For  if  it's  justly  hers,"  Iris  said,  most 
i-esolutely,  •*  nothing  on  earth  would  induce  me  to  keep  her  out 
of  it." 

So  the  end  of  it  was  that  early  in  November,  Iris  herself,  with 
her  mother  and  uncle,  crossed  over  to  Algiers  as  the  eminent 
Q.C.  preferred  to  phrase  it,  "on  their  fool's  errand."  It  was 
h;ir(l  to  leave  England  at  such  a  moment,  indeed;  but  Uncle 
i  om  felt  that  if  any  tomfoolery,  as  he  called  it,  was  likely  to  go 
on,  it  was  best  for  him  to  be  on  the  spot  to  prevent  it  from  tak- 
ing the  wildest  flights  of  Quixotic  extravagance.  So,  with  a 
very  bad  grace,  he  consented  to  come  over,  consoling  himself  at 
any  rate  with  the  thought  that  Iris  would  thus  take  personal 
possession  of  Sidi  Aia,  and  that  if  the  thing  was  to  be  investi- 
gated at  all  it  was  best  it  should  be  investigated  by  a  competent 
person  familiar,  by  long  experience,  with  the  practice  of  the 
Probate  and  Divorce  Division. 

The  fickle  Mediterranean  used  them  kindly  ;  and  it  was  at  three 
in  the  morning  of  a  clear  starlight  night  that  the  good  ship  Ville 
de  Naples  of  the  Coinpcuinie  Transatlantique  brought  them  fairly 
in  sight  of  the  shores  of  Africa.  Mrs.  Knyvett  had  retired  early 
to  her  cabin  for  the  voyage,  and  would  not  have  risen  from  that 
safe  retreat  had  Mont  Blanc,  Niagara,  and  the  Golden  Horn 
pressed  themselves  simultaneously  at  a  single  burst  upon  her 
maturer  vision.  But  Iris  was  young,  and  youth  is  impetuous, 
even  when  duly  chastened  and  restrained  by  three  years'  diligent 
pruning  at  Girton.     So  the  Third  Classic  rose  np  in  haste  at 


THE    TENTS    OF    SHEM. 


127 


Uncle  Tom's  muffled  report  of  "  Land  in  sight  1  "  and  went  u) 
on  deck  in  a  thick  ulster  for  her  first  glimpse  of  Africa  and  goldeii 

And  what  a  glimpse  it  was,  that  night  arrival,  as  the  steamer 
ploun^hed  her  way  slowly  round  the  corner  of  the  mole  into 
the  great  dim  harbour  !  In  front  a  vast  rising  mass  of  streets 
and  gas-lamps,  clambering  in  endless  steps  and  stages  up  the 
steep  face  of  a  mysterious  mountain.  On  either  hand,  a  small 
fleet  of  dancing  boats,  crowded  with  strange  Arabs  in  the  Orien- 
tal dress,  all  shouting  and  calling  in  loud  guttural  voices.  To 
right  and  left,  dark  ranges  of  hills,  silhouetted  vaguely  against  the 
deep  African  sky,  and  crowded  with  faint  white  specks  of  villas. 
Everywiiere  lights  that  danced  and  quivered  on  the  rippling 
water ;  everywhere  bustle  and  noise  and  confusion ;  everywhere 
the  strange  sense  of  a  foreign  land — not  foreign  like  P'rance,  or 
Germany,  or  Italy,  but  southern  and  African  and  vivid  and 
Moslem. 

Iris  waited  on  deck  till  the  day  dawned,  and  saw  that  wonder- 
ful town  of  Algiers — the  *'  pearl  set  in  emeralds,"  as  the  Arab 
poets  loved  to  call  it — swim  slowly  into  ken  in  the  grey  light  of 
morning.     It  was  a  beautiful  sight — a  sight  to  be  remembered 
and  treasured  through  a  long  life-time.     First  of  all,  a  white 
solid  mass  of  marble  detached  itself  by  degrees  in  clear  reliei 
from  the  background  of  the  dark  mountain  behind  it.     Tier  aftei 
tier,  it  rose  to  the  sky  as  if  hewn  in  one  block  from  the  quarries 
of  Carrara.     Streets  or  allies  there  were  none  to  behold ;  tlit 
flat-topped  houses,  each  square  as  a  die,  clustered  close  in  on( 
tangled  continuous  block,  as  though  not  even  a  needle  could  bi 
thrust  in  between  them.     Dark  alleys  threaded  that  labyrinth, 
no  doubt,  but  so  tortuous  as  to  be  hidden   by  the  overhanging 
houses    and    projecting  doorways.     For  twenty  minutes  these 
solid  white  steps  alone  were  distinctly  visible  ;  then  bit  by  bit 
as  the  light  grew  clearer,  the  picture  began  to  resolve  itself  piece 
meal  into  its  component  elements.     In  the  foregound,  a  publit 
square,  stately  with  tall  date-palms  ;  a  snow-'^hite  mosque,  witj. 
big   round    dome,   and   tile-faced    minaret;  a   splendid    Frenci 
boulevard,  arcaded  like  Paris  ;  a  range  of  vast  and  cosily  quays, 
thronged  with  the  connuerce  of  Marseilles  and  of  Liverpool.     In 
the  background,  the  congested  Arab  town,  rising  up  like  a  stair 
case  to  the  huge  dismantled  citadel  of  the  Deys  thai  crowned  the 
summit  of  a  spur  of  the  Sahel.     To  the   right,  the  sea;  to  the 
left,  the  smiling  slopes  of  Mustapha,  frequent  \^  .ili  villas,  Moorisli 
French,  or  Lnj^lish,  each  losl  ni  the  brilliant  green  of  luxuriuui 


W'-- 


'  y>'.'-^-y^ 


128 


THE   TENT8  OV   BHEM. 


garfiens.  Toulon  below,  Beyrout  above,  Torquay  arxl  fnnnp* 
an4  Staraboul  beyond — that  was  the  straii^'o  coismopolilau  pic- 
ture that  Iris  Knyvett  beheld  before  her. 

Ujicle  Tom  had  telegraphed  from  Marseilles  to  the  people  at 
Sidi  Aia,  so  everything  was  in  waiting  at  the  quay  to  n-ceive 
them.  The  invaluable  Maltese  who  acts  as  Conimisniouaire 
arranged  to  see  their  luggage  through  tlie  Customa,  and  follow 
them  up  with  it  in  due  course  ;  so  the  Knyvettn  and  Uncle  Tom 
had  nothing  to  do  but  to  get  into  thoir  carriage  and  drive  up 
quietly  to  tlieir  own  villa. 

Iris  was,  in  principle  at  least,  a  Sof^iiilist ;  "  We  are  all 
Socialists  now,"  a  big  man  has  said,  so  I  suppose  tlun-u's  no 
great  harm  in  confessing  the  fact  openly.  Bui  the  female  heart 
is  fickle  on  principles  ;  and  when  the  Tliini  Classic  beheld  the 
gorgeous  Arab  coachman,  who  sat  on  the  box,  with  his  braided 
blue  jacket,  his  maize-coloured  girdle,  his  full  white  trousers, 
and  his  crimson  fez,  she  felt  in  her  heart  it  would  In)  hard, 
indeed,  to  give  up  all  these  for  the  service  of  humanity.  They 
rolled  along  smoothly  through  the  crowded  streets,  past  Arabs  on 
donkeys,  and  Arabs  on  foot,  in  every  varitity  of  dirt  and  grimi- 
iiess ;  past  Moorish  women,  niufiled  to  the  eyes,  and  gliding 
silently  by  the  wondering  infidels  ;  past  the  Kabyle  market  in 
the  open  square,  alive  with  oriental  bustle  and  commotion  ; 
through  the  Porte  d'Isly,  with  its  curious  colle(!tion  of  maimed 
and  halt  beggars;  and  up  the  long  ramping  gradients  of  tin;  n)a(l 
that  leads  by  slow  degrees  to  the  suburb  of  Miistai)ka.  It 
seemed  an  endless  drive,  in  the  cool  morning  air,  with  an  inter^v 
minable  succession  of  countrv  Arabs  comiirj:  in  to  niiirket  on 
their  mules  and  their  donkeys.  Villas  innunierahle  lined  the 
road,  embowered  in  thickets  of  bamboo  or  date-palm,  and  draped 
with  great  clustering  masses  of  Banksia  roses  or  crimson  Bou- 
gainvillea.  Some  of  them  showed  Moorish  architecture  at  its 
best,  with  their  beautiful  arcades  and  their  stately  doorways. 
Iris  hoped  in  her  heart  iSidi  Aia  would  turn  out  like  one  of 
these,  and  not  a  great  staring  square  French  chatejiu  like  the 
house  on  the  hill  top,  with  no  sense  or  tinge  of  local  colouring, 
so  utterly  out  of  place  with  all  its  natural  and  artiiicial  Kur- 
lOindingg. 

At  the  little  Colonne  Voirol  they  renrlnvl  the  summit,  and 
swept  sharply  round  into  the  road  to  El-Bi;i,r.  In  two  niniuteR 
more.  Iris's  heart  beat  high  with  delicious  hope,  as  the  (laiiiago 
turned  into  the  courtyard  of  the  loveliest  ami  most  native- 
looking  Moorish  house  they  had  yet  beheld  upon  that  deliy:htfu] 
hillside. 


wmmm 


mm 


tmimm 


mmmmmmmi 


mmm 


mn 


mm 


TUB    THNTS    Of   BUSH. 


18P 


What  a  court  it  was,  that  shady  vestibulo  1  A  marble  fouu 
tain  spurted  in  the  midst,  set  about  with  tall  annus  and  gracet'ui 
waterweeds.  Orange-trees  and  palma  grew  msiiie  m  clumps; 
an  open  arcade  of  horseshoe  arches,  with  twisted  marblfl  eolamni 
of  antique  workmanship,  ran  entirely  round  it  in  aa  Oriental 
quadrangle.  The  floor  was  covered  with  dainty  old  tilee ;  a 
string  course  of  the  same,  in  still  lovelier  patterns,  set  oflf  the 
pediment  of  the  arcade  above  with  their  exquisite  beauty.  It 
was  a  dream  of  delight,  come  true  by  accident ;  a  glorious 
dream,  too  good  for  solid  earth  ;  the  sort  of  home  one  sees  in 
one's  fancy  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  but  never  hopes  or  expects 
to  come  across  as  a  fact  in  this  work  a  day  world  of  prosaic 
realities. 

Iris  mounted,  awestruck,  and  too  full  for  speech,  from  the 
uncovered  court  into  the  inner  entrance  hall.  It  was  a  second 
courtyard,  somewhat  smaller  than  the  first,  but  covered  over  above 
with  a  glass  roof,  so  as  to  form  an  ante-room  or  central  focus  to 
the  villa.  A  double  arcade  ran  round  it,  above  and  below,  both  of 
delicate  Saracenic  arches,  but  the  lower  one  open  through  all  its 
length,  while  a  balustrade  of  richly-oalved  woodwork  formed  a 
fitting  parapet  for  the  upper  gallery,  stretching  in  a  line  from 
pillar  to  pillar,  and  just  high  enough  for  a  person  to  lean  upon 
comfortably.  The  floor  was  of  marble,  covered  with  rich  old 
Oriental  rugs ;  tiles  still  more  priceless  than  those  of  the  outer 
court  accentuated  the  structural  lines  of  the  building.  Froto 
the  etaijors  on  the  walls  gleamed  curious  old  trays  of  wrought 
brass,  inlaid  with  Arabic  inscriptions  in  graven  iilver ;  the 
niches  in  the  wall,  formed  by  marble  slabs  ben(3ath  the  graceful 
flat  arch  peculiar  to  Algiers,  were  decorated  with  exquisite  pieces 
of  native  pottery,  Kabyle  and  Tangierine,  or  from  the  Aures 
mouutains. 

Iris's  heart  swelled  high  at  the  sight,  with  the  pride  of  posses- 
sion. At  that  moment,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  her  waning 
Socialism  had  dwindled  away  by  rapid  stages  w  what  her  Cam- 
bridge friends  would,  no  doubt,  have  described  as  a  negative 
quantity.  It  had  reached  \anishing  point.  The  deceitfulnesb 
of  riches  was  too  much  for  her  principles. 

On  the  short  ilisrht  of  steps  that  led  from  the  outer  to  the 
inner  court,  two  old  women  stood,  with  smiling  faces,  to  welcome 
Iris  to  her  wew  home. 

"  You  are  Zolie,  I  think,"  she  said  to  one  of  them,  timidly,  in 
her  boarding-school  Fren(di,  a  broken  dialect  that  sat  not  unbe- 
comingly on  those  pretty  lips.  _ 


''?'\,r  ■:-;:' v'¥w»>v'*'^^JV' 5.- 


ISO 


THl  TBNTl  or  BBXM. 


And  Zelie,  proud  that  her  name  sliould  be  rRinemberetl  by  the 
grand  young  lady,  answered  fervuiitly,  •'  1  am  Zelie,  made- 
moiselle, and  glad  to  welcome  un  dame  si  ainiahle  to  the  walls  of 
Sidi  Aia." 

"  And  you're  Sarah,  I  suppose,"  Irii  went  on  in  English  to 
the  other  old  woman,  taking  her  )iand  in  hers,  and  grasping  it 
cordially. 

•'  Yes,  my  lady,  I'm  Sarah,"  the  English  woman  answered, 
returning  the  grasp  with  sudden  warmth.  "God  bless  your 
pretty  face  anr*  your  sweet  young  eyes,  inv  dear.  They  told  us 
you'd  wear  a  pair  of  blue  apeotaclos  and  be  able  to  talk  nothing 
but  Greek  and  Latin." 

**  Iris,"  Mrs.  Knyvett  remarked,  severely,  shocked  at  such 
familiarity  at  the  very  threshold  of  their  Algerian  experiences, 
••  don't  ^ou  think,  my  child,  we'd  bettor  go  on  and  see  the  draw- 
ing-ro<  ,  1  ?  " 

"  If  you  like,  darling  mother,"  Iris  answered  with  a  bright 
smile,  "  though  I've  seen  enougli  airoady  to  drive  me  frantic." 
And  in  three  minutes  more,  she  was  Btret(;lied  at  full  length  upon 
the  big  window  seat  with  the  Tlemcen  .ug,  looking-out  through 
the  beautiful  little  Moorish  arches,  past  the  waving  date-palms 
and  tall  yuccas  of  the  garden,  to  the  blue  bay  that  shimmered 
with  silver  in  the  morning  sun,  and  the  snow  clad  peaks  of  the 
Djurjura  in  the  distance.  Nay,  more  ;  to  crown  all,  for  an  Eng- 
hshwoman'e  heart,  old  Sarali  had  brought  them  up  a  cup  of 
good  strong  English  tea.  with  cream  complete,  on  an  antique 
tray  with  blue  porcelain  cups,  net  out  on  an  inlaid  ebony  and 
ivory  Damascus  table.  Bagdad  and  Cairo  swam  before  her  eyes. 
Iris's  heart  was  too  full  to  speak.  "  Xil  non  landahib  vide"  she 
murmured  to  herself.  Socialism  for  the  moment  was  at  a  dis- 
tinct disf'ount.  A  house  like  this  was  too  beautiful,  surely,  for 
IMyes  lu  siiai-e  with  that  ignorant  and  taiteless  fellow,  Lazarus  I 


'f. 'V    '■' 


\ 


4* 
) 


';  » 


■ .'^"•■■f.K'V'^Wffffrr."  ■■•    •       '■  '■• 


»'  '  ■.    " ""■  '■  JW"J 


THB  TENTS  OW  BESU* 


131 


red  by  the 
le,  made- 
le  walls  of 

English  to 
grasping  it 

answered, 
)less  your 
!y  told  us 
ik  nothing 

at  such 
:periences, 
the  draw- 

1  a  bright 
I  frantic." 
ngth  upon 
it  through 
late-palms 
himmered 
iks  of  the 
f  an  Eng- 
a  cup  of 
Q  antique 
bony  and 
her  eyes. 
vide,''  she 
I  at  a  dis- 
urely,  for 
Lazarus  i 


CHAPTER  XX. 


AWAY  TO   KABYLIE, 


At  Sidi  Aia  the  Tvnyvetts  and  Uncle  Tom  spent  four  o;  "  . 
days  most  enjoyabl}  for  themselves — as  indeed  well  they  niigat, 
for  a  more  charming  home  exists  not  even  on  ilie  sunht  slopes  of 
Mustaplia  Superior.  Iris,  for  her  part,  was  lu'vor  tiiad  of  wan- 
dering through  the  beautiful  garden — her  own  :^'arden — oh, 
most  unsocialistic  but  most  natural  thou.^^lit  ! — admiring  the 
Ulies,  and  the  orchids,  and  the  scarlet  amar^liisos,  and  the  rich 
profusion  of  her  own  namesake  irises.  Though  it  was  mid 
November,  the  beds  still  blossomed  gay  with  endless  flowers  ; 
the  rich  bloom  of  the  locjuat  trees  perfumed  the  heavy  air,  and 
the  dehcate  bolls  of  the  great  white  African  clematis  hung  in 
long  festoons  from  every  straggling  bough  on  the  hill-side  oppo- 
site. Iris  had  never  seen  such  wild  luxuriance  of  sub-tropical 
foliage  before ;  the  walks  in  the  -grounds  of  Sidi  Aia  itself, 
relieved  by  glimpses  of  the  other  neighbouring  white  Moorish 
villas,  with  their  flat  roofs  and  their  horseshoe  arcades,  scattered 
over  the  green  slopes  on  every  side,  transported  her  mentally,  on 
some  enchanted  carpet,  to  the  dreams  of  her  childhood  and  the 
terraces  of  the  good  Harouii-al-Rasliid. 

But,  seductive  as  Sidia  Aia  proved  to  the  economic  ideas  ol  the 
Third  Classic,  and  subversive  of  all  the  good  socialistic  opinions 
she  had  carried  away  with  her  from  the  Cambridge  lecture-rooms, 
it  nevertheless  did  not  prevent  her  from  realizing  the  fact — the 
sad  fact  — that  her  first  business,  now  she  had  got  to  Africa,  was 
to  find  out  the  truth  about  this  girl  Meriem.  The  moment,  to  be 
sure,  was  unpropitious  for  such  thon-nts.  In  the  'garden  at  Sidi 
Aia,  Iris  confessed  to  herself,  not  withoni  sundrv  i,,  I'ual  blushes, 
that  it  would  be  hard  to  give  up  all  these  !()'•  ly  things  to  tiiy 
rightful  heir,  if  the  rightful  heir  shfuld  j)i\>\c  to  be  indeed  this 
vague,  shadowy,  half-African  cousin  tiu'  recesses  of  Kabylie. 
Till  she  came  to  Algiers,  she  had  i,;'^-  i  fully  felt  what  wealth 
implit'i!  ;  now  that  she  saw  how  nuicl,  .>f  beautiful  and  f^rracrful 
it  eo;;'.a  bu^  or  kuup,  she  was  loiii  at  JuucU'l  &u  ahuilio  it  oil  U)o 
easily,  v       •         .  * 


?7^t  F^ '^     -p^v^" 


US 


fill   TSNTB   or   SHEll. 


Nevertheless,  that  uncomfortable  Knyvett  conscionce  of  herH 
drove  her  on,  in  spite  of  her  own  unwillingness,  to  in(|uire  into 
the  whole  case  as  presented  for  Meriem.  They  must  stop  at 
Mustapha  for  a  few  days  only,  to  rest  after  their  long  and  hurried 
journey,  and  must  then  go  off  on  their  expedition  to  Kabylie. 

So,  on  the  third  morning  of  their  stay  at  Sidi  Aia,  idie 
imperious  young  heiress  bundled  Uncle  Tom  unceremoniously 
into  town  by  main  force  to  make  full  inquiries  of  Sir  Arthur's 
agent  as  to  the  best  way  of  proceeding  to  the  mountains,  aud 
the  nature  of  the  accommodation  a  Christian  party  might  expect 
when  it  got  there. 

"  Try  to  find  out  a  nice  hotel,  there's  a  dear,"  she  said,  caress- 
ingly, "  and  arrange  to  go  as  fast  as  we  can  to  this  place  on  the 
hills  to  hunt  up  Miss  Meriem." 

Thus  exhorted.  Uncle  Tom  set  off  with  sore  misgivings,  but 
as  in  duty  bound ;  for  he  felt  he  was  but  clay  in  the  bauds  of  the 
potter  before  that  clever,  self-willed,  coaxing'  little  Iris.  While 
he  was  gone,  his  niece  went  out  with  old  Sarah  for  a  stroll  in 
the  garden — once  more — she  could  have  passed  a  lifetime  in  that 
lovely  garden — and  being  still  a  woman,  though  a  Oirton  gradu 
ate,  she  there  pursued  her  sociological  investigations  at  full 
leisure  into  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  adjacent  proprietors. 

"  And  who  lives  in  that  great'white  house  on  the  left,  Sarah  ?" 
she  asked,  with  unaffected  feminine  curiosity  ;  **  the  house  where 
the  three  ladies  in  white  mornin<j:-(lresse8  stand  at  the  windoxA 
so  much  with  their  hair  let  down,  and  make  myKterious  signs  to 
the  Arabs  in  the  vineyard  ?  " 

Good  old  Sarah  laughed  a  quiet  little  langh.  "  Why,  that's 
Dr.  Yate-Westlmry's,"  she  said,  with  some  reluctance,  "  and 
those  ladies  you  see  at  tjie  window's  his  piiiienls," 

"  WliatI     Not  the  great-  nia.l  doctor?"  Ins  cried  with  a  start. 

"Mad  doctor!     Well,  j^eB,  tint's  just   ahout   the  truth  of  it. 
Mad  he  is,  if  you  give  me  the  word.      They're  all  of  'em  as  mad 
as   their  patients,  the  mad  doctors.     Dr.   Ynte-Westbury,   hu- 
particular   form  of  madness  is   Algiers.     He  thinks   Algiers  is 
good  for  everything,  from  paralvsis  or  apo[)lexy  to  pain  in  the 
little  finger.     Have  you  got  consumption  ?     Then  go  to  Algiers. 
No  place  on  earth  like  A'uiers    for  the  lungs.     Air's  a  tonic, 
bracing,  and  highly  exhilarating.     Can't  you   sleep  at  niglils  ? 
Then  go  to  Algiers.     No  place  on  earth  like  Algiers  for  sleep 
Air's  sedative,  soothing,    and    extremely  unexciting.     Are  yo! 
sound  in  your  mind?     Then  go  to  Algii  rs.     Tlie  very  pl.'i.-r  f 
givtt  you  rest  and  amuiiemeui  wiliiout  luiduu  ovtil-stiumlaiiun. 


wmmm 


mm 


mm. 


mm 


TBI  TINTS  Of  IBKH. 


las 


Are  yon  going  off  your  head  ?  Then  go  to  Algierfl.  The  viiry 
place  to  give  you  change  and  variety,  with  a  new  type  of  life 
and  Oriental  scenery.  That  a  how  he  goea  on.  He's  a  specialist, 
he  is — a  specialist  with  a  vengeance.  He's  got  but  one  treatment 
for  all  diseases.  His  diagnosis,  poor  dear  Sir  Arthur  used  to  say, 
is,  •  You're  wrong  in  you're  chumps,'  and  his  therapeutics  ate 
'  and  Algiers'll  cure  you?  '" 

"  A  mild  form  of  mania,"  Iris  answered,  smiling  at  the  Old 
woman's  unexpected  command  of  the  recondite  resources  of  the 
E'.nglish  language. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  but  there's  method  in  his  madness,  too,"  old 
Sarah  answered,  with  a  wise  look  in  her  eyes.     •'  He  toakeS  hifi 

living  out  of  it,  mad  or  sane He  takes  in  patients  at 

three  guineas  a  day,  and  lie  has  land  to  sell  for  eligible  building 
bites  on  the  road  to  El-Biar." 

"  You  know  too  much,  Sarah,"  Iris  answered,  with  a  Irtilgh. 
"  You're  quite  a  cynic.  Cynicism's  a  thing  I  always  dread.  II 
you  talk  like  that  I  shall  be  afraid  to  say  another  word  to  you." 

By  second  breakfast  time.  Uncle  Tom  returned,  much  fatigUiBd, 
from  town,  very  red-faced,  and  montally  flustered. 

"  Well,  Iris,"  he  said,  mopping  his  forehead  with  Lis  fattioUa 
red  silk  handkerchief — that  handkerchief  dreaded  by  riiany  a 
nervous  witness — "  this  a  pretty  wild-goose  chase,  indeed,  you've 
brought  us  upon  I  ♦  TaUt  about  a  hotel,'  says  the  gitl,  '  a  nice 
hotel,  uncle! '  Why,  Watson  assures  me  there's  not  a  "^Utopean 
house,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  within  five  miles  ol  the  plafce 
where  Clarence  Knyvett's  alleged  daughter  is  said  to  live  ;  and 
these  two  young  vagabonds  who  hunted  the  Claimant  out  for 
your  edification  camp  out  tlieniselves,  a  la  belle  etoile,  h*e  tells  me, 
in  a  canvas  tent,  on  the  top  of  a  mountain.  There's  a  style  of 
life,  indeed,  for  an  elderly  barrister  I  Pretty  sort  of  niess  this 
you've  gone  and  got  us  in  I  " 

••  Now  don't  flare  up,  there's  a  dear  I  "  Iris  answered,  sooth- 
ingly, stroking  his  arm.  *•  I  suppose  we  shall  just  have  to  camp 
out,  too  ;  that's  all  there  is  to  be  said  about  it.  In  a  climate' 
Uke  this,  and  in  fine  weather,  camping  out  must  be  simply  deli- 
cious ;  and  so  romantic  to  tell  the  girls  about,  you  kno\^,  when 
one  goes  back  again  home  to  England." 

"  Romantic  1 — rheumatic  you  mean  I  "  Uncle  Tom  cried, 
angrily — for  he  hated  romance  with  all  his  heart ;  he  had  seen 
too  much  of  that  sort  of  thing  in  the  annals  of  the  Probate  find 
Divorce  Division.  ••  Your  mother's  bronchitis  would  nevet  alldtv 
it.     Besides,  there  are  panthers  and  jackals  and  heaven  knows 


M 


'  ■flpi.j.^rv.'.i'ijB.i'  ■  I'KJ."''*-,  ■ 


•'    jmmmp^- 


^ 


m 


184 


THB    TENTS   Of    UUMM, 


'.f' 


i^r 


what,  Watson  tells  me  ;  centipedus  ami  scorpiona  crawl  over 
yoii  as  you  sleep,  and  tarantulas  drop  on  to  your  bald  head  as 
you  recline  at  your  ease  in  your  own  quarters.  Added  to  all 
which,  the  Kabyles  are  in  a  very  discontented  state — smoulder- 
ing, smouldering — and  he  thinks  an  insurrection  might  break  out 
any  day." 

"  I  don't  mind  panthers,"  Iris  murmured,  with  a  face  some- 
what damped  by  incipient  disappointment ;  "  and  I  rather  prefer 
scorpions  than  otherwise,  but  I  must  confess  I  should  draw  a 
line  myself  at  a  native  insurrection." 

"  Most  insubordinate  people,  according  to  Watson,"  Uncle  Tom 
continued,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  improving  his  opportunity  as 
soon  as  found.  *•  Might  cut  your  throat  and  your  mamma's  any 
evening.  Perfect  savages,  it  seems,  in  their  frightful  ways — 
perfect  savages." 

"  But  couldn't  we  go  and  stop  with  Meriem  ? "  Iris  asked, 
innocently. 

Uncle  Tom  held  up  his  hands  m  unutterable  dismay.  "  Im- 
possible I  my  child,"  he  cried.  •'  Impossible  I  impossible  1 
You'd  have  to  pig  it  with  the  goats  and  the  cattle.  There's  not 
a  house  in  Kabylie  fit  for  a  Christian  to  live  inj  everybody  says, 
except  at  two  places  called  St.  Cloud  and  Fort  National.  St. 
Cloud's  the  nearest  post  to  the  village  where  the  dusky  young 
lady  of  African  origin  has  pitched  her  tent,  and  Watson  assures 
me,  if  we  must  go  to  Kabylie,  which  he  strongly  deprecates,  the 
only  practicable  thing  to  do  is  to  stop  with  the  wife  of  the 
Administrator  of  the  settlement." 

"  But  we  can't  invite  ourselves,"  Iris  cried,  aghast. 

"  Well,  Watson  thinks,"  Uncle  Tom  continued,  much  against 
the  grain,  but  urged  by  an  inward  sense  of  duty  to  disclose  the 
facts,  "  that  the  lady  in  question  would  be  only  too  glad  to  get 
the  chance  of  having  us,  she's  so  badly  off,  in  those  remote  parts, 
for  European  society.  She's  a  gay  little  body,  it  seems,  of 
Parisian  proclivities  and  much  intelligence,  who's  been  buried 
alive  in  a  hole  among  the  mountains  for  heaven  knows  how  long; 
and  she's  only  too  glad  to  get  anybody  to  stay  with  her  who'll 
bring  her  up  the  last  Algerian  gossip,  and  the  newest  patterns  of 
Paris  fashions." 

••  I'm  afraid,"  Iris  said,  glancing  down  at  her  own  neat  and 
simple  tailor-made  costume,  "I  shall  hardly  satisfy  her  require- 
ments in  that  respect ;  but  how  can  we  manage  to  get  an  intro' 
duction  to  her  ?  " 

'*  Oh,  that's  done  already,"  Uncle  Tom  replied,  with  lome  eon 


Vt^m 


THE    I'KNTI   OF    8UKM. 


IBS 


. 


soious  pride  in  the  suuccsslul  carrying  out  of  his  uiiwilliii<^ 
mission.  *•  Watson's  given  me  a  letter  in  due  form  to  the  lady's 
husband.  He  Itnows  him  well.  Ihire  it  is,  you  see:  'A  M. 
VAdministrateurdelu  Counnnnr  Mi.iU'  tie  St,  Cloiul-cn-Kdbj/Ue."* 

'•  What's  a  Commune  Mixto  '?  "  Iris  asked,  examining  it. 

••A  mixed  community,  1  suppose,"  llnclu  Tom  answered,  with 
a  certain  tartness.  "At  any  laie,  we  won't  get  our  throats  cut 
there;  for  Watson  says,  even  if  tiiere's  a  rising,  St.  Cloud  can 
hold  its  own  against  a  thousand  Kahyles.  It  was  entirely  cut 
off  in  the  last  insurrection,  to  be  sure,  by  a  night  surprise : 
almost  every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  the  place  exterminated. 
(>ur  proposed  hostess  herself  only  escaped  with  her  life  by  walking 
across  the  snow  for  miles  in  her  ni^ht  dress  and  peiyyioir.  The 
insurgents  killed  all  the  inhabitants  first,  to  make  quite  sure  of 
them,  and  afterwards  hacked  them  into  very  small  pieces  for 
their  own  amusement.  But  that's  a  mere  trifle;  since  then, 
I'm  told,  the. fort  has  been  stren<;thened,  and  it's  now  partially 
brick-built,  and  capable  of  standing  some  days'  siege.  So  that 
at  St.  Cloud  we  shall  doubtless  be  comparatively  safe.  I'iVen  if 
there's  a  rising,  as  there's  very  likely  to  be,"  Uncle  Tom  re- 
peated, playing  his  trump  card  once  more  for  emphasis,  '*  it  could 
hold  its  own  against  a  thousand  Kahyles." 

This  telling  little  speech  Uncle  Tom  delivered  with  consider- 
able nonchalance,  directing  it  straight,  with  no  small  cleverness, 
at  his  pretty  niece's  timid  head  ;  and  for  a  moment,  indeed.  Iris 
wavered  visibly.  Her  face  blanched  and  her  lips  quivered  faintly 
at  the  casual  detail  of  the  hacknjg  in  pi(!ces.  Then  that  strong 
and  obstinate  Knyvett  idiosyncracy  of  hers  came  to  her  aid  once 
more. 

*•  Very  well,  miole  dear,"  she  said,  ipiietly,  without  pretending 
in  any  way  to  notice  his  frecpiont  Innts  ()\  serious  danger.  "I'll 
write  to  this  lady  this  very  al'temoon,  •'•"'  ask  her  if  she  can  tell 
us  where  to  put  up  if  we  go  to  St.  Clouu  .  for  that  I  suppose,  is 
the  only  way  I  can  broach  the  <iihi"-'  '*ut.  Uncle  Tom,  there's 
a  dear,  whatever  you   do,    do    i  .  ,a  the  question  of  the 

iising  to  mother." 


ry  y,  ■      ■m^'ntyr^^t^w^f"'^ 


am 


TUK    i'iilMM   OJr   tfU£M. 


CJAPTER  X\'T. 


A  BTRANGB    MKE  i  I      ). 


n 


IJ-T' 


A  FKw  (lays  later,  by  the  tent  door  at    •••"<•  "*'  •     -^^ 
Meriem  sal  conversing'  eagerly  on  tlie  groan       .  ;  .    .,i 

Marcliant. 

"Well,  I've  read  all  the  novels  now,  EustMce,'  sJie  saiii.  vv.t;^ 
a  smile  oi  profound  satisfaction,  "  and  I've  learnt  from  them,  on 
ever  such  a  lot  about  England.  I  do  like  novels.  I  don't  know 
how  I  ever  got  on  without  them.  They're  so  full  of  queer  facts  ; 
they  tell  one  about  a  life  so  different  from  our  own  ;  by  talking 
so  much  with  Vernon  and  you,  1  tliink  I'm  beginning,  at  last,  a 
little  to  realise  it.  But  I  want  more  l)ooks  to  rea(l  now — our 
Kabyle  proverb  says  '  the  kid  only  gives  you  an  appetite  for  the 
goat' — and  Vernon's  got  no  more  to  give  me." 

"  Why  not  try  this  ?  "  Eustace  sugg(!sted,  with  a  smile,  laying 
his  hand  on  the  painter's  "  Golden  Treasury  of  iSongs  and 
Lyrics." 

'•  No ;  not  that,"  Meriem  answered,  without  the  faintest 
embarrassment.  "  I  like  those  better  when  Vernon  reads  them 
to  me.     He  makes  them  sound  so  much  nicer  than  I  can." 

*'  How  about  mine,  then  ?  "  Eustace  went  on,  crest-fallen. 

•♦  I  was  looking  over  yours  ifii  the  tent,  ye.sterday,  but  I  don't 
think  I  could  understand  them  much.  I  took  down  this:  •  The 
Prodromus  to  the  Entomology  of  North  Africa  '  " — she'd  got  the 
long  words  quite  pat  no  — •'  but  it's  so  full  of  queer  names  I 
don't  understand,  and  it's  not  very  easy,  and  it  isn't  so  interest- 
ing as  '  A  Princess  of  Tlmle.'  I  like  '  A  Princess  of  Thule ' 
best  of  all,  I  think,  aad  r.ftor  that  •  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham.' 
But  there's  one  of  your  books  I  believe  I  could  understand — one 
all  about  the  '  Conversation  of  Energy.'  " 

"  Conservation,  Meriem,"  Le  Marcliant  corrected,  laughing. 
"  My  dear  child,  your  education's  really  going  on  a  great  deal 
too  fast  if  you  think  of  tackling  Balfour  Stewart  already." 

"  But  I  want  to  learn  all  I  can,"  Meriem  answered,  earnestly, 
•'in  case — in  case  I  should  ever — be  taken — to  England." 

"Meriem,"  Le  Marchant  said,  with  a  very  grave  voice,  '♦  Vei*- 
nou  .will  never. jpever  take  vou." 


'mm 


^m 


'mmm^'W^ 


TUB    TXNT8    OF    SUJEM. 


287 


•  Tliori  w!iy  <^oes  he  ta!k  to  me  so  bcnntifully,  anci  read  me 
such  versos,  and  paint  me  so  often  9  "  Meriosm  answered,  with 
tears  rising  quick  to  her  hig  brown  eyes.  •'  I  think,  Eustace,  he 
really  likes  me.  And,  perhaps,  if  onljr  I  could  make  myself  fit 
for  him " 

••  Moriem  I  "  the  painter  cried,  at  that  critical  moment,  putting 
in  his  head  at  the  flap  of  the  tent.  "  I  want  you  out  here  again, 
at  once.     I've  just  got  an  idea  for  a  most  charming  picture." 

Meriom  brushed  away  a  tear  with  the  corner  of  her  haik, 
unperceived,  as  he  thought  (though  Eustace  marked  it),  and  went 
out,  smiling,  to  the  too-soductive  Vernon. 

•*  Look  here,"  the  painter  said,  over- trustful  now  of  his  own 
powers,  "  I've  been  sketching  those  girls  laying  out  their  clothes 
on  the  bank  to  dry,  and  I  want  you  to  stand  in  the  foreground 
here  and  let  me  fill  you  in,  wringing  out  a  haik,  as  my  central 
figure." 

Meriem  knew  no  law  but  Vernon  Blake's  will.  ••  Very  well, 
Vernon,"  she  answered,  meekly,  and  poised  herself  as  he  wished 
uar,  in  a  simple  and  natural  attitude,  like  a  Greek  statute. 

•*  Why  do  you  always  paint  me  so  much,  and  not  the  other 
girls  ? "  she  asked,  after  a  pause,  as  he  went  on  with  his 
sketching. 

"Why,  your  cousin  Iris  will  be  coming  soon,"  Blake  answered 
m  explanation,  altering  shghtly,  with  irreverent  hands,  the  pose 
of  one  shapely  arm  and  shoulder.  "  You're  by  faif  the  prettiest 
girl  in  the  place,  and  I  want  to  make  hay  whila  the  sun  shines 
— to  make  the  best  of  my  opportunities  before  the  great  lady 
comes  and  takes  my  beautiful  model  away  for  ever." 

"  I'd  rather  stop  here,"  Meriem  murmured,  slowly.  She  took 
his  a(hniration,  without  surprise  and  without  false  shame,  as  a 
natural  tribute. 

•'  But  she  won't  let  you,  Blake  answered,  with  a  laugh ; 
'•  she'll  carry  you  off  bodily,  and  send  you  to  college,  like  her- 
self, at  Caiijbri!l,<2:e." 

"  I*8hould  like  that,"  Meriem  said,  brightening  up  ;  ••  for  then 
I  should  be — wise — like  any  Enghsh  woman." 

•'  1  wondtr  if  you'll  like  her,"  Blake  observed,  carelessly. 
"  She'll  be  an  awfuJ  swell,  I  expect ;  six  or  seven  thousand  a 
year,  at  least,  so  Le  March  ant  tells  me." 

*'  Will  she  be  dressed  like  Mrae.  I'Administratice,  5o  you 
think?"  Meriem  asked,  with  a  sigh,  "High-heeled  boots  and 
a  tall  hat  ?  For,  if  the  is,  I  don't  fancy  I  shall  care  for  her." 

She  will  be;  no  doubt,"  Blake  answered,  going  on  with  bis 


. 


188 


IBB    TKNT8    Of   IHKll. 


ikfitch  ;  "the  mirror  of  fashion  and  the  cream  of  aocietv.  And 
she  won't  my  n  soiit  ii  f  iblioiii  iinvthiiig  on  earth  that  either  yoD 
.)i'  I  can  iindri'staii'l  a    vovi]  (jI',"        ''  ,-         • 

As  lie  spoke,  tlic  siliiiic  of  t,!io  inonntain-side  was    suddenly 

listii'Di'd  by  a  loml  IJnlisli  voicc  oxclimninj^'  in  mingled    French 

and  English,  "  Well,  nmix  mild  at   last,  Madame  ;  c'eatici  Beni- 

Mer/oug  ;  and   a  jolly   l)r(!iilMi('cl\    ride  up   these  beastly  hills 

we've  had  for  it,  too.  liavcui't  we,  iris?" 

Meriem  looked  U[).  and  beheld  before  her  eyes  a  strange  and, 
till  that  niotnent,  uiiheurd  of  apparition.  Two  European  ladies, 
in  riding-habits  an  1  hats,  sat  patting  the  smooth  necks  of  their 
weary  horses  ,  while  bcdiind  tliern,  on  a  short,  stout  mountain 
pony,  a  short,  stout  gentleman,  with  a  very  red  face,  mopped  his 
hot,  moist  l)row  with  u  large  luid  still  redder  silk  pocket-hand- 
kerchief. One  of  tlie  ladies  Meriem  recognised  at  once  as 
Madame  rAdminisLnitrice  ;  the  other  she  had  never  seen  before, 
but  she  knew,  of  courae,  from  the  old  gentleman's  words,  it  was 
her  cousin  ins. 

•'  Now,  my  child,"  the  stotU  g<!ntleman  remarked,  disembark- 
ing with  some  diHiculty  from  his  precarious  saddle — for  he  was 
no  cavalier  "  don't  yo'i  come  into  the  tent  at  all.  Madame  and 
I  will  see  this  man  Le  Marcliant  by  ourselves  at  first,  and  find 
out  how  much  he  wants  to  get  out  of  us." 

Meriem  could  Inive  answered,  proudly  and  angrily,  at  once,  so 
much  did  the  unexpected  impul'tion  sting  uer  ;  but  Vernon 
lilake,  anxious  to  see  this  little  conunly  played  out  in  full  to  its 
natural  close,  and,  foreseeing  spoi't,  held  one  warning  finger  up 
to  his  lip,  and  Meriem  forthwith  stood  mute  as  a  statue. 

So  Uncle  Tom  and  Ma,dam(3  disappeared  into  the  tent,  and 
Iris,  leaj'iiig  lightly  from  her  graceful  Arab,  which  half  a  dozen 
Kabyle  boys  frouj  the  village,  expectant  of  .so w.s,  volunteered  with 
many  salaams  to  hold  for  her,  walked  frankly  up,  with  her  hahit 
in  one  hand  and  her  wliip  in  the  other,  to  the  embarrassed 
painter. 

"  We  must  introduce  ourscdves,  I  suppose,"  she  said,  with  a 
sunny  and  delicious  smile.  "  My  na,»ue,  as  1  suppose  you  will 
already  have  guessed,  is  IriH  Knyv(tt;  and  \ou,  no  doubt,  are 
one  of  Mr.  Le  Manduuit's  camping  couipanions  ?  "' 

"  Your  na,me,"  the  painttsr  answered,  witii  a  half- frightened 
bow,  "  all  the  worid  knows,  even  here  in  Kabylie.  7'he  very 
last  thing  I  read  in  print,  before  leaving  Algiers,  was  the  leader 
in  the  Tinifs  on  your  achievement  at  Girton." 

Muriera  posed  opposite  them  in  her  attitude  as  model.  oouiJ 


''I 


m 


THJB    TENTS   OF   SHXU. 


189 


I 


Dot  fail  to  notice,  with  quick,  womanly  instinct,  how  far  mort" 
leferuiitial  ami  courteous  was  his  manner  to  the  grand  Englisii 
'miIn  llian  it  had  ever  been  to  her  poor  Kabyle  cousin. 

•'  I'm  afraid  you  have  still  the  a.dvantai,'e  of  me,"  Iris  said, 
vvith  a  glance  at  his  beautiful  sketch  ;  "  for  you  haven't  yet 
iiven  rue  your  half  of  the  introduction." 

"  My  name,  I  fear,  won't  convey  so  much  meaning  to  you," 
I'.lake  replied,  modestly  ;  "  as  yours  to  me.  It's  Vernon  Blake — 
by  trade  a  pr» inter." 

'•  You  mistake,"  Iris  cried,  with  pleased  surprise.  **  I  know 
your  work  well.  I've  seen  it  at  the  galleries.  You  painted  that 
beautiful  little  study  of  an  Italian  child  in  last  year's  Grosvenor.'' 

To  Meriem,  who  knew  nothing  of  all  these  things,  this  talk 
was  indeed  gall  and  wormwood.  It  was  cruel  of  Vernon  to  put 
her  to  such  pain ;  but  he  had  held  up  his  finger  to  her,  and, 
)l)edient  to  that  sign,  she  still  kept  silence. 

The  painter's  cheek  flushed  with  pleasure.  "  I'm  glad  you 
liked  it,"  he  said,  "  and  flattered  that  you  remember  it.  This, 
too,  will  make  a  pretty  little  sketch.     It's  natural,  isn't  it  ?  " 

•'  It  is.  And  your  model's  beautiful,"  Iris  cried,  enthusias- 
tically. •*  What  a  charming  figure  I  Bho  reminds  one  of 
Nausicaa." 

"  Eh,  ....  quite  so,  the  painter  responded,  dropping  his 
voice  suddenly,  with  a  dubious  tone. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  during  whicfh  curiosity  and  the 
natural  desire  to  conceal  his  ignorance  fought  hard  for  mastery 
in  Vernon  Blake's  mind  :  then  he  ventured,  at  last  to  inquire 
with  caution,  "  Er  .  .  ,  .  who  did  you  say  my  model  reminded 
you  of?" 

"  Nausicaa,"  Iris  repeated  in  an  "  of  course  so  "  sort  of  tone. 
•  You  must  know  Nausicaa,  I'm   sure  ;    in   the   Odyssey,  you 
remcuiber." 

"  I've  never  read  the  Odyssey,"  the  painter  said,  shortly. 

"  Ah,  you  took  up  the  Iliad  instt^ad,  I  suppose,"  Iris  went  on, 
Willi  gentle  persistence.  Blake  allowed  the  rash  conjectuie  to 
,ia^3  in  silence  unquestioned.  That  any  one  should  have  read  no 
llomGr  at  ail  seemed  to  her  inconceivable.  She  knew  more  than 
her  companion  ;  so  much  was  el  .j.r-ran'd  Meriem  hated  her  for 
It. 

"  Ho  V  extremely  fair  she  is."  Ins  continued,  observing  the 
ireii.bli  ;U  Kabvle  "irl  with  criticil  eves.  **  I'd  no  idea  there 
«v(£ib  people  in    Alnca  kjuj  i.   ii;;j    like   aa    Luropeuii   loukmg  and 


!?j:'  * 


liO 


THX    TKNTS  OW   SIUM. 


Greek  as  she  is.  Ganserio  and  his  Vandals  mast  hare  left  4 
great  deal  of  their  blood,  no  doubt,  stamped  deep  on  the  soil  in 
Mauritania  generally." 

"  No  doubt,"  Vernon  Blake  assented,  with  caution  above  hia 
years ;  though  who  the  dick .  is  GenFC]  ic  might  be,  or  what  the 
Vandals  were  doing  in  Mauritania,  whorever  that  \yas,  he  had  no 
more  notion  than  Meriem  herself  had. 

"  Her  eyes  are  exquisite.  You're  lucky  to  get  such  a  model 
as  that,"  Iris  went  on,  unconcerned.  "  But  her  feet  are  perhaps 
just  a  trifle " 

Meriem's  honest  nature  could  stand  it  no  longer.  **  Vernon," 
she  cried  aloud,  in  an  agony  of  blushes,  disregarding  the  beck 
of  his  commanding  finger,  •'  it  isn't  right,  you  know  ;  it  isn't 
true  to  her  ;  you  shouldn't  let  her  go  on  supposing  in  this  way 
I  don't  understand  English.  .  .  .  She  might  say  something  she 
didn't  intend  me  to  hear,  you  know,  Vernon." 

Iris  drew  back,  thunderstruck,  in  a  vague  tumult  of  i.u' ,i  'na. 
She  recognized  in  a  moment,  of  course,  who  the  Kabyic  gir'  was 
that  could  thus  easily  and  idiomatically  address  the  paintc  r  in  his 
native  English.  But  the  shock  was  none  the  less  instantaneous 
and  electric.  Never  till  that  morning  had  it  for  one  instant 
occurred  to  her  that  Uncle  Clarence's  daui^hter  would  not  be 
dressed  like  an  ordinary  Christian — simply  and  even  coarsely  or 
poorly  indeed,  but  still  in  the  common  and  recognised  garb  of 
female  Christendom.  That  this  barefooted  Kabyle  girl,  in  haik 
and  girdle,  with  her  flowing  hair  and  her  Phrygian  cap,  was  the 
cousin  she  \m(\  come  so  far  to  find,  fairly  took  her  breath  away 
on  the  first  blush  of  it. 

For  a  minute  they  stood  and  gazed  on  one  another  from  a  safe 
distance.  Iris  with  the  curiosity  of  a  stray  visitor  to  the  Zoo ; 
Meriem  with  the  terrified  and  startled  look  of  a  beautiful  wild 
animal  brought  suddenly  to  bay.     Then  Iris  slowly  moved  for 
ward  to  greet  her. 

••  You  are  my  cousin  Meriem  I  "  she  cried,  with  a  flushed,  hot 
face;  and,  even  as  she  spoke,  she  took  the  beautiful  girl's  two 
hands  in  her  own.  Next  instant,  yielding  to  a  sudden  gracious 
impulse — for  blood,  after  all,  is  thicker  than  water — she  folded 
poor  trembling  Meriem  to  her  bosom,  and  kissed  her  on  both 
cheeks  with  impulsive  affection. 

In  a  second,  Meriem's  heart  had  burst  with  delight  at  tA' ' 
grand  English  lady's  goodness  and  condescension.  Those  si)  vcV- 
chosen  words  ♦*  my  cousin  Meriem," — that  one  touch  of  natur*? 
that  makes  the  whole  world  kin,  as  she  folded  her  to  her  bosom 


w- 


?!!P 


na  TENTS  or  shsii. 


Ul 


— hftd  conquered  at  once  the  proud  Kabyle  reserve  In  Meriem's 
nature.  With  a  flood  of  tears,  the  graceful  wild  thing  cast  her- 
self passi  lately  at  Iris's  feet,  and,  raising  the  hem  of  her  riding- 
habit  in  her  hand,  kissed  it  fervently  with  her  lips  a  dozen  times 
over. 

••  Iris,  Iris,"  she  cried,  ••  I  love  you  1  I  love  you  I  Ybu  mighi 
kill  me  now.     I  should  love  you  for  ever." 

Iri?  raised  her  from  the  ground,  with  a  startled  face,  half* 
terrified  at  this  unexpected  outburst  of  feminine  emotion. 

>•  Meriem  !"  she  exclaimed,  "  my  dear  child,  dear  Meriem ; 
yon  mustn't  throw  yourself  at  my  feet  like  that,  for  worlds  I 
We're  cousins  you  know.  I've  come  all  the  way  from  England 
to  meet  you  and  know  you."  And  she  clasped  the  poor  girl  once 
more — witli  more  genuine  and  unaffected  tenderness  this  time 
— to  her  own  soft  bosom. 

••  You  may  go  back  again  then,  if  you'll  take  me  with  you," 
Meriem  cried,  impulsively;  "for  now  that  I've  seen  you,  and 
know  what  you're  like,  1  could  never  take  from  you  one  penny  of 
our  money.     I  never  wanted  it  at  all  myself.     All  I  want  is  to 
e  near  you,  and  love  you." 

At  that  moment,  as  they  stood  there  with  arms  clasped  tight 
round  one  another  sile.ntly,  before  the  open  heaven,  Madame 
rAdministra trice  appeared  unexpectedly  at  the  tent  door.  The 
incredible  sight  made  her  start  with  alarm. 

"  Mon  Dieu  I  "  she  screamed  out  volubly,  in  hei  shrill  little' 
voice,  to  Uncle  Tom  within.  "  M.  Vitmarsh.  M.  Vitmarsh,  come 
quick  and  see.  CVsf  incroi/nhte,  mnu  r't'st  vrai,  Viola  iitadenuii- 
telle  V(itt«  niece  qui  emhrasse  uru  indiyejut  1  '* 


l 


IVa 


TUh   TSMIb    OV    MUhJu. 


CHAPTER  XXn. 

A    THUNDERBOLT. 


\         '. 


Things  had  gone  badly  for  poor  Uncle  Torn.  He  had  stopped 
inawares  into  the  lion's  mouth.  When  the  astute  old  huvyc^r 
.aw  that  disconcerting  sight  from  the  door  of  Eustace  Le  Mar- 
chant's  tant,  he  felt  that  chance  had  indeed  dealt  roughly  with 
lim.   ^        '  ''" '.'  .'.    \,        "'       * 

He  tooi-.         1  in  at  a  glance,  of  course  :  so  this  was  the  young 

woman!     jl      Claimant  I     The  Impostor  I     While  he  luid  been 

ualking  with  the  enemy,  Le  Marchant,  in  the  gate,  the  young 

woman   herself,    losing   no  time   in    prosecuting   her   vigorous 

Lssault,  had  surprii^ed  the  citadel,  and  carried  it  by  storm.     Nay, 

what  was  worse,  she  had  even  enlisted  that  ill-regulatod  and 

usceptible  Knyvett  heart  of  Iris's  on  her  own  side.     There  he 

ound  them,  hugging  like  a  pair  of  fools — plaintiif  and  defen- 

ant  in  the  self-same  cause,  as  thick  as  thieves  one  with  tbe 

tlier.     The  foe  had  suborned  a  traitor  in  the  camp.     This  v/ily 

^!ibyle  girl, — pretty,  no  doubt,  undeniably  pretty;  as  a  man  of 

;t->te,  Uncle  Tom  could  not  pretend,  in  his  own  mind,  to  burke 

-;iat  patent   fact ;  but  a  savage  for  aii   that — a  mere   Atricau 

s.tvago — trusting  to  her  pure  cheek  and  her  physical  charms,  had 

wane  an  easy  prey  of  his  poor  trustful    Iris.     Those  Knyvctts, 

ou  see,  were  always  so  unpractical.     No   Whitmarsh   on  earth 

vduld  ever  have  acted  like  that,  Uncle  Tom   felt  cuiuiin.     No, 

iHlned!     Quite  the  contrary.     A   Whitmarsh  would   have   held 

lu  alleged  dnughter  of  the  late  Uncle  Clarence  at  arm's  iun;.^L!; 

iMirehy,  and  refused  to  acknowledge  olf-hand  this  shadowy  clann 

I  cin  uiicoitain  consanguinity.     A  Whiunarsh  would  have  fought, 

le  matter  out,  inch  by   inch,  to  the  hitler  end,  insisting  upon 

lof  at  every  step,  and  refusing  to  accf|/.   a  snigle  weak  fact,  a 

-i^fe  shaky  or  illogical   inference.     While  these   Knyvetts,  you 

ow — bah  I  it  made  the  eminent  Q.C.  sick  to  tliink  of  it ;  so 

iiixotic;  so  sentimental;  so  ignorant  of  the  wiles   that  were 

iiiiple  matters   of  everyday  experience  to  an    old  hand  in  the 

L*robate  and  Divorce  Division. 


I' 


ipnp 


TUK    TKN'ib    UH'    bxiii^M. 


I» 


If  only  she  had  been  black,  or  even  dusky,  now,  ns  TTreU  Tom 
had  always  anticipated  I  But  a  pucka  white  woiiian — as  white 
as  himself — and  handsome  into  the  bargain!  Was  ever  Q.C. 
more  disastrously  fitted  with  a  susceptible  client  and  a  dangerous 
opponent  ? 

It  was  with  difficulty  that  the  disheartened  old  lawyer  finished 
that  evil  day's  work ;  but  since  chance  had  so  brought  things 
about  that  the  first  investigation  meeting,  so  to  speak,  must 
needs  be  held  before  a  committee  of  the  whole  house,  he  decided 
to  make  a  virtue  of  necessity,  and  invite  Iris  and  the  C!  ;imant 
herself — to  Uncle  Tom  Meriem  was,  henceforth,  simply  the 
Claimant  to  take  part  openly  in  their  deliberations. 

"  Iris,  my  dear,"  he  called  out,  in  a  somewhat  testy  tone,  "  come 
into  the  tent  here,  and  bring  that — that  young  person  with  you." 

••  Come  along,  Meriem,"  Iris  said,  as  one  speaks  to  an  old 
friend,  leading  the  timid  Kabyle  girl  by  the  hand,  like  a  child,  to 
the  tent  door.  ••  Uncle  dear,"  she  whispered  gently  into  his  ear 
"she  speaks  English,  and  she's  a  sensitive  creature.  Now,  for 
my  sake,  there's  a  darling,  don't  be  hard  on  her,  or  harsh  to 
her." 

Pretty  ;  and  sensitive!  Oh,  Lord,  what  luckl  He  must  hold 
his  tongue,  it  seemed  in  the  presence  of  the  impostor,  for  fear 
the  truth  should  hurt  her  delicate  feelings  1 

'•  You've  got  an  uncle,  young  woman,"  Uncle  Tom  observed, 
with  a  severe  look,  fixing  a  jury-box  eye  sternly  on  Meriom. 
*'  I  think  it  would  be  better  that  this  uncle  should  be  represented, 
personally  or  by  counsel,  if  I  may  be  allowed  the  expression,  at 
this  preliminary  investigation." 

"  What  does  he  say.  Iris  ?  "  Meriem  whispered,  awestruck. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  him,  dear,"  Iris  whispered  in  return,  clasp- 
ing Meriem's  hand  tight  in  her  own,  •'  He's  a  little  rough,  you 
know,  but  he's  awfully  kind  and  good  for  all  that.  He  only 
wants  you  to  send  for  your  uncle." 

"  I  didn't  know  Englishmen  ever  talked  like  that,"  Meriem 
answered,  simply.  "  Vernon  and  Eustace  never  speak  to  me  in 
that  way." 

Meanwhile  Uncle  Tom  had  murmured  something  in  French 
to  Madame  I'Adniinistratrice,  which  Meriem  didn't  understand. 
The  iiippant  little  FrencliM^oman  nodded  acquiescence.  *♦  Va 
'Jiercher  V Aiidne  !  "  she  cried  in  an  authoritative  voice  to  Meriem. 

The  girl  caught  the  meaning,  though  not  the  words,  and  dis- 
engaging her  hand  gently  from  her  cousin's,  rose  up  and  glided 
at  once  from  the  tent,  '*  like  a  Greek  goddess,"  Iris  thought  to 
lit^rsHlf.  as  she  followed  her  with  attentive  eves,  admirinalv. 


ir 


1 


iilK   i'iiiM'H   Olt  iHJCM. 


i .  ^ly  fi'^ '  niilk,"  the  painter  put  in,  Interpreting  hex 

liiougiua  ;  lor  he,  l^o,  had  joined  the  party  in  the  tent.  "You 
see,  those  girla  are  so  free  in  their  movements,  and  accustomed 
to  earn  such  heavy  weights  on  tJmir  liead  from  early  childhood, 
that  they  grow  at  last  to  step  evenly  poised,  like  Queen  Mab  or 
Titania." 

The  English  allusions  sounded  strange  to  Iris;  she  herself 
would  have  said,  in  a  similar  case,  ••  Like  Athene  or  an  Oread." 

In  two  or  three  minutes,  Merlem  returned  onoe  more,  pre- 
ceded by  the  Amine,  quite  en  dimnnrhe,  in  a  better  burnous  than 
Le  Marchant  or  Blake  had  yet  seen  him  in. 

*•  Assieda-toi  ta,"  Madame  TAdministratrioe  exolaimed  in  an 
imperious  voice,  pointing  with  her  sharp  forefinger  to  a  low  box 
seat  in  the  furthest  corner. 

Iris  was  surprised  at  the  haughty  tuUmmcnt,  especially  as  the 
Amine,  in  his  best  Friday  clothes,  seemed  altogether  so  much 
more  dignified  and  important  a  personage,  with  his  tall,  supple 
body  ai:d  his  oriental  gravity,  than  the  skimpy  and  volatile  httle 
high-heeled  Frenchwoman. 

The  Aminft's  eyes  flashed  fire  angrily,  but  he  restrained  his 
indignation,  after  the  Oriental  wont ;  and  with  a  polite  bow  and 
a  '*bonJour,  mesdames ;  bonjour  mcMimrH,"  took  his  seat  in  the 
corner  where  superior  authority  had  so  cavalierly  relegated  him. 
The  melancholy  and  pathetic  Kabyle  expression  in  his  large 
sunken  eyes  made  Iris  feel  an  instinctive  respect  and  sympathy 
towards  the  grave  old  man. 

"  Ask  him  first,  Madame,"  Uncle  Tom  said,  oificially,  in  such 
French  as  he  could  command — it  was  perfectly  fluent  and  pro- 
foundly insular — "  if  he  can  tell  us  the  precise  date  of  death  of 
this  man  Yusuf,  alias  Leboutillier," 

The  tears  rose  quick  into  Meriem's  eyes,  at  hearing  those 
sacredest  of  all  names  to  her  so  roughly  pronounced,  but  she, 
too,  bit  her  lips  to  still  her  emotion,  and,  fur  Iris's  sake,  held  her 
peace  painfully. 

The  Frenchwoman  repeated  the  question  to  the  Amine  in 
French,  with  an  inquisitorial  air  of  legal  accuracy.  But  the 
Kabyle  only  shook  his  head  in  the  utmost  dismay.  *•  No  com- 
prend  limjua  Francn,"  he  answered,  helplessly,  in  the  one  phrase 
of  that  old  barbarous  jargon  which  still  survived  in  his  native 
mountains. 

*'  Ask  him  in  Kabyle,  then,  Madame/'  Uncle  Tom  persisted. 

Madame  TAdministratice  started  as  if  she  were  stung.     "  Do 


\^. 


llilipp 


TUK    TKiNTS    UK    bUtCW. 


140 


I  understand  Kabyle,  monsieur?  "  she  t'\  hiiined  indignantly,  at! 
.vlio  should  repel  a  slight  upon  her  personal  gentility. 

Uncle  Tom  beamed  out  at  her  from  his  respectable  spectacles 
iu  mild  surprise.  "  Am  I  to  gather,  then,"  he  said,  with  wide 
lopen  eyes,  '•  that  you've  lived  for  fifteen  years  on  end  in  Kabylie, 
and  can't  yet  speak  one  word  of  the  Kabyle  language." 

*'  Not  a  syllable  1  not  a  letter  I  not  a  jot !  not  a  tittle  1 " 
Madame  disclaimed,  energetically,  with  a  profuse  gesture.  '•  If 
these  pigs  of  indujenes  desire  the  pleasure  of  my  spirited  conversa- 
Ition,  let  them  go  and  learn  French  themselves  at  school,  and 
jth€m  they  can  talk  to  me." 

[•    "The  loss  is  certainly  theirs,"  Uucle  Tom  responded,  with 
junwonted  gallantry. 

"  Meriem  can  interpret  for  you  Uncle,  dear,"  Iris  suggested, 
[coaxingly.  •*  Only,"  she  whispered  somewhat  lower  in  his  ear, 
"  try  to  put  questions  so  as  not  unnecessarily  to  hurt  the  poor 
'.diild's  feelings." 

This  was  really  too  much  for  Uncle  Tom'g  equanimity.  •*  My 
idear,"  he  whispered  back,  with  legal  firmness,  "  such  a  proceed- 
ing would  be  highly  irregular,  highly  irregular.  To  make  the 
Claimant  herself  our  interpreter  in  the  case  would  be  to  turn 
jourselves  over,  bound  hand  and  foot,  to  any  nonsense  she  may 
'choose  to  palm  off  upon  us." 

••  I  think,"  Le  Marchant  interposed,  with  a  quiet  smile,  "  if 
you  will  allow  me  to  try,  my  slight  knowledge  of  Kabyle  will 
probably  suffice  to  put  such  a  very  elementary  question  as  the 
one  you  suggest  to  my  friend  the  Amine  here." 

Uncle  Tom  glared  at  him  with  angry  eyes,  but  could  not  very 
well  say  him  nay.     A  conspiracy,  of  course  ;  a  most  patent  con 
jspiracy  1  but  after  all,  they  were  not  on  their  oaths.     In  a  pure 
|ly  private  and  informal  investigation,  irregularities  of  this  sort 
might  perhaps  be  condoned  in  his  client's  interest.     They'd  bt 
^ure  to  let  out  some  damning  fact  or  admission  between  them. 
'    Le  Marchant  put  the  question  to  the  Amine  in  a  few  simple 
words.     The  Kabyle  shook  his  head  in  utter  perplexity.     A  date 
to  an  Oriental,  an  exact  date  within  a  stray  year  or  two,  is  an 
undreamt-of  pitch  of  historical  accuracy. 

"  It  was  about  three  years  since,"  Meriem  said,  in  English, 
with  tears  still  standing  in  her  big  brown  eyes,  "for  I  remember 
it  was  just  about  the  time  when  we  gather  the  olives." 

Uncle  Tom  gave  a  comical  look  of  despair.  Was  this  the  kind 
of  evidence  as  to  date,  forsooth,  to  tender  to  a  leader  in  the 
Probate  and  Divorce  Division  of  Her  Majesty's  High  Court  of 
/astio«  } 


j: 


14A 


THfl   TENTS   or    SUEM. 


li  was  Blake's  turn  now  to  interpose  with  a  sup[p;estion.  "I 
liiiiik,"  he  said,  turning  over  the  paj,'e8  of  his  sketch-bDok, 
hastily,  '*  I  have  something  here  that  may  oast  hght  on  the 
matter."  And  hitting  on  the  particular  sketch  he  required  as 
he  spoke,  he  passed  the  open  page  over  to  Uncle  Tom  with  polite 
carelessness.  ,  . 

Uncle  Tom  accepted  the  strange  item  of  proffered  evidence 
under  mute  protest,  and  without  prejudice.  As  a  matter  of 
principle,  he  didn't  believe  in  the  docftmentary  value  of  an  artist's 
sketches.  They're  never  sworn  to  before  a  Justice  of  the  Peace, 
as  the  Act  directs.  Still,  he  cast  a  hurried  glance,  for  form's 
sake,  at  the  particular  drawing  thus  eonlidently  pointed  out  to 
him.  It  was  a  rough  sketch  of  tlic  mouth  of  a  cave,  overgrown 
with  hchens  and  maidenhair  ferns  ,  and  it  bore  on  its  front  a 
bold  inscription  in  plam  Roman  capitals — 


OLARENCB    KNYVETJ 

■UA    IPSIU8    MANU    FKOIT  ', 

ANNO    HEOIR^ 

UOOLXIV.  ;     ■ 


Uncle  Tom  started,  but  restrained  his  surprise.  ••  It's  not 
without  merit,  viewed  as  a  work  of  art ;  but  what  does  it  prove?" 
he  asked,  half  angrily. 

•'  I  don't  know,"  Blake  answered,  retiring  abashed.  "  I've 
really  no  idea.  The  same  question's  been  asked  about  '  Paradise 
Lost,'  I  believe,  and  I  could  never  answer  it.  I  suggest  it  merely 
on  general  grounds,  as  tending  to  show  Cliiieiice  Knyvett  may 
have  been  alivb  as  late  as  the  year  1264  of  the  Mahominedan  era. 
It's  an  inscription  that  Le  Alarchant  and  1  found  on  the  face  of 
a  rock  high  up  on  the  slopes  of  Lalla  Khadidia,  in  the  Djurjura 
Mountains.  It  gave  us  our  first  clue,  in  fact,  to  the  curious 
problem  of  Merieni's  parentage." 

"  Those  words  were  the  last  thing  Yusuf  ever  wrote,"  Meriem 
murmured,  half  aloud.  "  He  must  have  written  them  just  before 
he  fell  from  the  rocks,  when  he  was  hiding  from  the  French,  who 
wanted  to  shoot  him." 

"  And  when  was  the  year  12(J4,  I  should  like  to  know?"  Uncle 
Tom  sneered  contani[)tiiously.  The  date  had  auch  a  remote 
miMlineval  sound  about  it. 

h  was  an  unfortunate  observatiou,  from  Uncle  Tom's  point  of 
view,  at  least:  for  even  as  he  spoke,  iris,  pulling  out  her  purse, 
consulted  a  small  pocket   alniauau.      "  it  bt^gan."  <ilif  said,  after 


THS   TZNTB   OF   tHSM. 


147 


a  short  but  abstruse  mental  calculation,  "on  Aprfl  the  20th, 
1883." 

Uncle  Tom  gave  a  short,  sharp  whistle  to  himself;  a  whistle 
that  he  checked  a  minute  later  with  a  distinct  air  of  being  (as  a 
Bencnerof  Lincoln's  Inn)  very  much  ashamed  of  himself.  *•  This 
ia  what  comes  of  sending  girls  to  Cambridge,"  he  thought  to 
himself  inwardly,  in  a  very  bad  humour.  ••  They're  so  proud  of 
being  able  to  calculate  a  date  that  they  supply  arms  and  ammu- 
nition gratis  to  the  camp  of  the  enemy. — Let  me  see  that  book, 
Iris,"  he  went  on  aloud,  in  no  happy  tone.  '•  Year  of  the  Hegira, 
1268,  commencing  April  20th,  1887.  H'm,  that'll  do.  Now, 
don't  be  precipitate." 

But  his  warning  look  and  uplifted  finger  were  thrown  away 
upon  poor,  eager  Iris,  who,  profoundly  interested  in  the  facts  of 
the  case,  and  anxious  only  to  arrive  at  the  truth,  forgot  to  con- 
sider her  own  role  in  Uncle  Tom's  little  extempore  drama. 

"  Why,  uncle,"  she  cried,  with  a  flash  of  intuition,  ••  Uncle 
Alexander  died  at  Bath — I've  got  it  down  here  among  the  memo- 
randa you  gave  me  that  day  at  your  office — on  April  the  4th, 
1883 ;  and  Clarence  Knyvett  wrote  this  inscription  not  earlier  than 
April  the  20th  in  the  same  year.  Therefore,  he  must  have  sur- 
vived Uncle  Alexander,  and  he,  not  Sir  Arthur,  was  the  real 
inheritor  of  the  Knyvett  property."  ; 

A  thunderbolt  could  not  have  fallen  more  heavily  on  poor 
Uncle  Tom.  No  turkey-cock  that  ever  strutted  a  farmyard  was 
half  po  red  in  the  face  as  he  at  that  moment.  He  would  have 
given  the  world  just  then  if  only  he  could  have  flung  down  his 
brief  on  the  table  before  him,  and  remarked  3arcastically,  •*  After 
what  my  client  has  just  admitted,  my  lord,  there's  nothing  now 
left  for  me  to  do  but  to  retire  at  once  from  the  case,  and  leave 
him  entirely  in  the  hands  of  the  jury."  But  here,  unhappily, 
was  a  client  whose  cause  he  could  not  throw  up,  come  what 
might — a  client  with  an  impossible  and  incredible  fancy  for  play- 
ing into  the  hands  of  her  own  opponents. 

*•  My  dear,"  he  whispered  in  her  ear,  in  an  agony  of  shame, 
disgust,  and  terror,  "  leave  it  to  them  to  say  all  tliat;  and  don't 
concern  yourself  at  all  with  Clarence  Knyvett.  What  we  have 
to  do  first  is  to  solve  the  question,  When  did  the  man  Yusuf  die? 
After  that,  we  have  to  ask  ourselves  next.  Was  Yusuf  identical 
with  Joseph  Leboutillier  ?  Only  in  the  third  place  can  we  come 
10  the  question,  Were  Yusuf  and  Joseph  Leboutillier  in  turn 
aliases  of  your  uncle,  Clarence  Knyvett  ?  " 

"  Yusuf  died  aooidentally,  by  a  fall  from  a  cliff,"  L«  Marchant 


143 


7.'HX   TENTS   OF    BHEM. 


^■: 


put  in,  carrying  on  the  problem  of  the  date  at  issue.  "  Surelj 
there  would  be  something  like  an  inquest  or  proces  verbal  held  on 
his  bod}^ — some  statement  of  the  ct^uso  of  death  in  the  actcs  de 
Vetitt  civil  at  St.  Cloud" — and  he  turned  round  with  a  question 
in  French  to  Madame  I'Adininistratrice. 

"  Est'ce  que  je  mis,  mot?  "  the  little  lady  answered,  with  a 
Hcivwed-up  face  and  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders.  "  Do  I  take  note 
of  the  death  of  this,  that,  or  the  other  imiiijene,  think  you  ? 
Qu'ent'ce  que  ca  me  fait,  a  moi^  monsirur  ?  My  husband  can  tell 
you  perhaps.     He  keeps  a  register  of  these  events,  possibly." 

"  My  father  fell  over  the  cliff,"  Meriern  put  in,  suddenly,  after 
a  long  and  abstruse  efifort  of  reason  in  the  endeavour,  by  the  aid 
of  Iris's  almanac,  to  correlate  the  Christian  and  Mahommedan 
calendars,  "some  time  in  November,  18B8;  I  know  it  now  by 
the  date  of  the  Moharram.  A  man  oame  up  from  Algiers  to 
search  for  him '* 

♦♦  A  French  detective,"  Le  Marchant  interposed.  "  So  one  of 
the  fathers  at  St..  Cloud  told  me." 

•*  And  Yusuf  thought  that  if  he  remained  at  Beni  Merzoug, 
the  man  would  find  out  his  French  name,  and  get  them  to  shoot' 
him,"  Meriem  went  on,  with  an  evident  and  painful  struggle. 
"  So  he  went  and  lived  in  the  caves  in  the  Djurjura  ;  and  there 
he  fell  over  a  cli£f  and  died ;  and  that's  all  I  can  tell  ycu 
about  it." 

"  Wliy,"  Iris  exclaimed,  with  a  flushed  face,  *•  that  muse  have 
been  the  detective — you  remember,  Uncle  Tom — that  Sir  Arthur 
sent  up  to  make  inquiries  about  him.  And  Uncle  Clarence  must 
have  mistaken  who  it  was  that  sent  the  man,  and  why  they 
wanted  him.  And  so  he  must  have  fled  from  his  own  property 
and  his  own  people  at  the  very  time  they  were  trying  hardest  to 
discover  him." 

Uncle  Tom's  face  was  a  study  to  behold.  It  would  have  made 
the  fortune  of  some  rising  yenre  painter.  Such  a  client  as  this 
hi3  had  never  had  to  deal  with.  She  would  spoil  the  best  case 
that  ever  was  briefed.  She  gave  up  everything  at  the  mere  nod 
of  her  dangerous  opponent. 

•♦  My  dear,"  he  said  slowly,  aloud  this  time,  "you're  making  a 
great  many  most  unwarrantable  assumptions.  If  this  inscription 
is  really  genuine,  which  we  don't  know — I  give  no  opinion  ;  it 
may  or  it  may  not  be  ; — and  if  Yusuf  was  the  man  i^oboutillier; 
and  if  Leboutillier  was  your  Uncle  Clarence  ;  and  if  we  can  trait 
these  people 'i  evidence '*  .      ^ 


tBB   TENT8   OV   SHKII. 


149 


He  got  no  further,  for,  us  he  said  those  words,  Meriem  rose  up 
like  a  statue  before  him. 

"  Iris,"  she  cried  earnestly,  taking  her  cousin's  hand  once 
more  in  hers,  "  I  love  you,  I  love  you  I  I'll  speak  to  you  ;  I 
won't  speak  to  him  ;  because  he  distrusts  me  and  doesn't  believe 
me.  Nobody  ever  distrusted  me  before,  not  even  tlie  Kabyles. 
Don't  let  hird  come  here  any  more  to  inquire.  I  can't  bear  to 
hear  him  speak  like  that  about  my  dear  dead  father.  1  loved 
Yusuf,  and  I  love  him  still.  I'm  glad  you've  come.  I'm  glad 
you're  my  cousin.  But  whether  the  money  you've  come  about 
is  yours  or  mine,  let's  say  no  more  about  it.  I  hope  you'll  keep 
it.  I  want  none  of  it.  What  guod  is  it  to  me  ?  All  1  want  is 
to  know  my  father's  friends.  And  if  you'll  let  me  love  you,  I 
need  no  money." 

•*  Uncle  Tom,"  Iris  said,  flushing  red  in  return,  •*  let  her  off, 
there's  a  dear.  She  means  what  she  says.  You're  hurting  her 
affections.  If  we  want  to  set  this  matter  right  at  all,  we  must 
set  it  right  without  bothering  Meriem.  ' 

They  rose  to  go,  but  Meriem  clung  to  her.' 

"  Iris,"  she  whispered,  ••  come  again  soon,  and  see  me  alone. 
I  want  to  talk  to  you.     I  want  to  be  friends  with  j»ou." 

"  m  come  again  soon,  dear,"  Iris  answered,  with  a  kiss.  "  I 
loY«  you,  too,  Meriem.    I  think  I  understand  you." 


■'*^.; 


r^/  '  ""fWW^f.n 


150 


TBJC    X£NrS    OF    SUiCK. 


CHAPTER  XXIIL 


-  A    DIFFICULT    CLIENT. 

They  mounted  their  liorses  and  rodo  hack  toward  St.  Cloud  in 
moody  silence.  Madame  rAdniinist,ratrice  indeed,  to  do  lu^r  jus- 
tice, chatted  volubly  and  fiippanlly  all  the  way.  Hut  Uncle  Tom 
Eind  Iris,  in  no  mood  tor  gossip,  contented  themselves  with  an 
occasional  nod  or  a  smile  of  acquiescence.  Their  minds,  to  sav 
the  truth,  were  otherwise  en<<aged  than  with  madame's  n'l^rcts 
for  her  Parisian  luxuries.  Uncle  Tom  was  in  a  d^'cidcdly  had 
humour;  and  with  Uncle  Tom  that  always  meant  that  the  case 
was  turning  out  very  ill  for  his  client.  He  couldn  l  concn-al  from 
himself  two  obvious  facts  :  first,  that  it  looked  very  niiich  ind«!ei| 
as  though  the  man  Yusuf  and  Clarence  Knyvett  were  really  one 
and  tiie  same  person  ;  secondly,  that  .'t  looked  very  miu-h  indeed 
as  if  C'larence  Knyvett  had  really  outlived  his  brother  Al  nder. 
If  these  tilings  were  so,  two  points  alone  could  save   h  Mil's 

case.  In  tiie  first  place,  it  was  pretty  certain  that  L-uii-ence 
Knyvett  could  never  have  married  ^Ieriem's  mother,  m  any  sense 
recognised  by  the  Probate  and  Divorce  Division.  In  the  sec- 
ond place,  it  was  also  pretty  certain  that  no  good  legal  proof  was 
forthcoming  of  the  identity  of  Yusuf  with  Joseph  Leboutiliier. 
Comfortmg  his  soul  with  which  two  specious  legal  (piihbles. 
Uncle  Tom  directed  liis  mountain  pony  cautiously  homeward  in 
no  little  internal  [)ertui'hation. 

As  for  Iris,  she  rode  on  with  ecjual  regret  at  many  results  of  this 
strange  interview.  At  the  v 'i-y  first  blush  of  it,  her  heart  had 
gone  forth  to  her  unknown  coesin,  Theie  was  something  about 
Meriem's  simple  nature  that  she  fell  civilisation  could  nev(;r 
rival.  She  was  vexed  in  soul  that  Uncle  Tom,  with  his  Lm 
coin's  Inn  suspiciousness  and  his  Old  Bailey  wit.  should  have 
gone  against  the  grain  of  that  fine  natural  character.  But, 
furthermore,  the  practical  outcome  of  that  morning's  work  had 
strangely  discomposed  her  own  plans  for  the  future.  Let  Uncle 
Tom  and  the  legal  aspect  of  the  case  quibble  as  they  might,  in 
•imple  equity  Iris  felt  sure  that  Sir  Arthur's  property  belonged 


TBB    TSNTg    OF    lUXU. 


161 


My  right,  to  Meriem  only.  She  didn't  doubt  now  that  Meriem 
was  Clarence  Knyvett's  only  daughter,  and  that  Clarence  had 
survived  his  brother  Alexander.  Thinking  so,  her  soul,  like  lier 
Homeric  hero's,  was  divided  this  way  and  that  within  her.  For, 
on  the  one  hand,  her  strong  sense  of  justice  and  her  clamorous, 
imperative  Knyvett  conscience  made  hor  anxious  to  see  abstract 
right  done  to  Meriem,  let  what  might  follow.  She  could  not 
tight  over  legal  quibbles,  where  the  trutli  was  clear,  or  pretend 
10  hesitate  about  questions  of  identity  when  Uncle  Clarence's 
daughter  stood,  visible  in  the  flesh,  a  true  Knyvett  before  hor. 
If  Meriem  was  the  heiress,  provable  or  not,  let  Meriem  take  the 
goods  that  belong  to  her. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  Iris  felt  with  a  pang  it  would  be  hard 
indeed  to  give  up  Sidi  Aia.  Six  thousand  a  year  had  moved  her 
httle ;  mere  money  stated  in  pounds  sterling  means  not  much  to 
a  very  young  woman.  But  when  she  had  once  seen  Sidi  Aia, 
•md  felt  the  pride  of  possession  in  that  exquisite  home,  it  would 
1)6  hard,  indeed,  to  give  it  up  to  the  rightful  owner.  She  wished 
she  had  never  seen  it  at  all,  so  as  never  to  know  the  pain  of 
parting  with  it. 

♦•  I  beheve  in  Meriem,  Uncle  Tom,"  she  ventured  to  observe, 
timidly,  at  last.  "  I  don't  tlxink  she  want's  to  get  Uncle  Arthur's 
property."  -       • 

Uncle  Tom's  ill-humour  grew  deeper  as  he  went,  the  case 
looking  blacker  and  blacker  on  reflection.  "  The  girl's  a  mere 
tool,"  be  answered,  sullenly.  "  She's  dupe,  not  knave.  She 
won't  do  much  harm  to  us.  It's  that  man  Le  Marchant  who's 
egging  her  on.  It  was  he  who  invented  this  cock-and-bull  story, 
lie  means  to  marry  her,  and  prosecute  her  claim.  Exaciiy  what 
[  told  you  has  really  happened.  He  read  your  advertisement, 
and  saw  his  chance  of  setting  up  a  new  sort  of  Tichborne  Claim- 
ant.    Of  course  it  was  he  who  carved  that  inscription." 

**I  never  thought  of  that,"  Iris  cried,  with  surprise,  half  • 
clutching  at  the  straw,  if  only  it  could  save  her  that  S.di  Aia. 
"  But  the  painter  said  he  saw  it  too,  and  I  somehow  fancy  the 
painter's  a  good  young  fellow.  With  a  face  like  that,  he  could 
hardly  be  otherwise.  I  never  saw  anybody  handsomer  or  more 
transparent."         " .  >  .; 

Uncle  Tom  grunted.  *•  You'd  learn  to  distrust  your  own 
brother,"  he  said,  shortly — "  supposing  you  had  one — if  you'd 
practised  half  as  long  as  I  have  at  the  Bar  of  the  Probate  and 
Divorce  Division." 

Iris  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes  more.     Then  she  said  again, 


163 


TUK   TENTS  Of  8HEM. 


•*  Tlicre'i  something  inexprefisibly  v/eird  to  my  mind  in  the 
coincidence  that  one  brothor  should  be  Uving  in  luxury  in 
Algiers " 

••No  coincidence  in  the  world  at  all  aboat  it  I  "  her  um-le 
answered,  testily,  with  a  burHt  of  ill-humour.  "Your  logic's 
bad.  That's  always  tlie  ciiso  with  you  Cambridge  graduatys. 
If  you'd  been  at  Oxford,  now,  like  mc,  you'd  see  at  a  glance  ttia« 
the  tiling's  a  matter  of  m(!re  ordiiuiry  sequence.  Your  Unci*. 
Clarence  came  to  Algiers  as  .lo.sepii  Leboutillier — so  niuch'.^ 
admitted  on  aill  sides  ;  and  it  was  his  coming  over  here  first  thai 
entailed  in  the  end  all  tiie  nsst  of  our  coining,  Sir  Arthur's,  aiul 
your's  and  mine,  and  your  tnotlicr's.  Sir  Arthur  came,  like  us, 
to  assure  himself  that  his  brother  was  comfortably  dead  and 
buried;  and,  not  being  burdened  with  a  young  woman  of  Cam- 
bridge education  and  ranciful  i)r()clivitie8,  he  was  lucky  enough 
to  satisfy  himself  off- hand  of  the  fact,  which  is  more  than  ive 
seem  likely  to  do,  confound  it  I  He  found  the  climate  and  the 
country  suited  him,  so  ho  bought  Sidi  Aia  out  of  the  money  of  tlie 
trustin  accordance  with  thetcrmsof  the  Admiral's  will ;  andsuiail 
blame  to  him  either ;  for  a  prt-ttier  or  swcicter  place  I  never  saw, 
though  you  do  want  to  fling  it  at  the  head  of  this  claimant. 
Where's  the  coincidence  in  all  that,  I'd  like  to  know?  Now, 
whore's  your  coincidence  ?  A  simple  ordinary  matter  of  mitural 
cause  and  eiloct — that's  just  what  a  logical  Oxford  mind  calls 
it." 

•♦  But  how  painful  to  think,"  Iris  went  on,  reflectively,  without 
heeling  his  interruptiou.^"  that  one  brother  was  living  in  luxury 
and  splendour  at  bidi  Aiar  while  the  other  brother,  the  real  pos- 
sessor of  the  property,  was  skulking  for  his  life  in  fear  and 
trembling  among  these  snowy  mountains,  and  dependent  for  hii- 
bread  upon  the  charitv  of  the  Kabyles  I  " 

"  That's  just  it,"  Uncle  Tom  went  on  with  dogged  cahnness, 
crushing  down  his  own  doubts  the  better  to  crush  down  and 
annihilate  his  niece's.  ••  That's  just  what  I  say.  Is  it  likely  V 
Is  it  credible?  la  it  in  accordance  with  all  we  know  of  human 
nature?  If  ho  was  the  heir  to  this  fine  estate — for  it  is  a  fine 
•  ■state,  Iris,  though  you  want  to  shuflle  it  off  on  the  bare-legged 
young  woman  of  doubtful  antocedents — would  he  go  hiding  and 
starving  in  a  cave  on  the  mountains,  instead  of  coming  down, 
and  saying  openly,  •  Here  am  I,  Clarence  Knyvett,  the  rightfuJ 
owner,  come  to  claim  my  own ;  get  out  of  m^'  iiuuse,  and  give 
me  up  my  money  ?  ' " 


I.- 


ffHa    TBMTI   OF   BH2M. 


168 


••  You  forget,"  Iris  said,  "•  that  the  Frenoh  would  have  ihot 
him,  and  the  English  sent  him  to  penal  servilu  le." 

"  I  don't  forget  it,"  Uncle  Tom  repeated,  with  some  asperitj. 
••  I  don't  forget  it.  I  never  forget  anything.  It's  a  habit  I've 
acquired  in  the  course  of  my  practice.  But  do  you  think  any- 
body in  hi  1  senses  would  shoot  or  iuipricoii  the  heir  to  a  splendid 
property  li)<:e  that  ?  No,  no,  my  girl ;  I  know  the  law  in  its  practi- 
cal working  in  all  countries.  Shoot  a  poor  devil  of  a  deserter,  if 
you  like,  with  three  sous  in  his  pocket,  and  nobody  '11  bother 
about  it  ;  but  not  a  man  who  can  ask  the  General  of  Division  to 
dinner  at  Sidi  Aia,  with  pate  de  foie  gras  and  a  mugiiuui  of  Veuve 
Chequot." 

Iris  was  silent.  Young  as  she  was,  she  know  the  world  wel! 
enough  already  to  guess  there  was  probably  a  good  deal  of  truth 
in  Uncle  Tom's  cynical  contention. 

"  Well,  now,  Iris,"  Uncle  Tom  went  on,  drawing  rpin  for  a 
geoond  as  they  reached  the  village,  "  I've  hac'  enough  of  youv 
co-operation  in  this  matter,  I  can  tell  you.  i'uiean  to  hunt  up 
the  rest  of  the  question  myself,  with  the  aid  of  an  interpreter — 
I  suppose  there's  somebody  here  at  St.  Cloud  who  understands 
this  beastly  Kabyle  lingo — and  sorrow  another  word  shall  you 
have  to  say  to  it.  You  may  fraternise  with  the  bare-legged  young 
woman  of  doubtful  antecedents  as  much  as  you  like  m  private — 
['ve  nothing  to  say  against  her  as  far  as  she  goes  :  she's  a  well- 
meaning  tool  of  that  man  Le  Marchant's  ;  but  never  again  shall 
I  let  so  incompetent  a  junior  as  yourself  be  with  lue  in  a  case  of 
such  prime  importance.  I've  talcen  away  the  brief  from  you,  so 
remember  in  future  I  manage  this  business  aioxie  in  my  own 
fashion." 


As  they  passed  out  of  the  street  at  Beni-MerTioug,  HnsRem  and 
the  marabout  had  watched  them  depart  from  the  sacred  grove 
by  the  little  domed  tomb  of  the  village  saint.  '*  There  goes  she 
of  the  high-heels,"  Hussein  cried  out.  mockingly,  in  his  own 
tongue,  at  the  same  time  that  he  bowed  his  head  deferentially 
almost  to  the  ground  before  her. 

"In  Allah's  good  time,"  the  holy  man  answered,  "her  proud 
head  shall  roll  in  the  dust  before  the  face  of  Allah." 

•*  And  these  others  who  have  come  to  her  from  over  the  sea  ; 
shall  we  slay  them  too  ?  "  Hussein  asked  with  languid  interest. 

♦'  Is  it  not  written,  '  The  Lord  knows  His  own  ?  '  "  the  mar- 
ikbwub  raphed,  looking  vacAut.ly  before  hiui.     **  When  li«e  FiuUi* 


154 


THB   VaXTC   or    IHSlt, 


ful  onftirl  the  flag  of  a  Tehad — a  holy  wax — they  fespect  not 
persons  ;  taey  destroy  lUterly  the  enemy  of  Ailaii  himself,  mad 
his  house,  and  his  slaves,  and  his  servants,  and  his  friend,  and 
the  stranger  that  is  within  his  gates,  leaving  not  one  Uving  soul 
behind  them." 

••  The  biggest  one — her  with  the  fair  hair,"  Hussein  went  on 
regretfully,  with  a  side  glance  at  Iris ;  •'  it's  a  pity  to  kill  her. 
It  seems  such  a  waste  of  good  material.  81. e  might  serve  well 
to  draw  water  and  to  cook  eous-cous  and  to  prepare  the  house  for 
the  sone  of  the  Faithful.  Her  face  is  pretty.  I  like  her  looks 
better  even  than  Meriem's." 

"  Slay  the  men  ;  take  the  women  alive  ;  says  the  word  of  Allah. 
All  but  the  woman  with  the  high  heels.  Lay  her  low  in  the 
dust,  says  the  servant  of  the  All-Powerfu' 

Hussein  smiled  a  horrible,  wistful  smilt;.  "  That's  well,"  he 
saiJ,  chuckling.  **  I  prefer  her  to  Meriem."  And  he  followed 
her  with  a  gloating  look  in  his  fierce  black  eyes  till  she  faded  out 
of  6i^ht  down  the  long  and  narrow  zigzag  muie-yatJi* 


i\ 


/     :' 


.\    -«. 


mmmmmmmm 


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lUk    iikMM   Oir'   Ba:;:^* 


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ut 


1 


.  "■■■      CHAPTER  XXIV.  > 

,  ■  "^  •  ' .    .  ■' 

HELLKNIOA.  '  ' 

"  Do  you  know,  Eustace,"  Blake  said  at  breakfast,  in  the  tent 
iiext  morning,  *•  I've  been  dfivoting  myself  too  exclusively  of  late 
to  the  mere  figure.  I  must  really  go  back  to  a  little  more  land- 
scape. These  studies  of  mine  of  girls  and  young  men — Meriem 
in  particular — will  be  awfully  useful  to  me  when  1  get  back  to  Eng- 
land. I  mean  to  work  'em  up,  and  make  really  good  things  of 
'em  for  the  Academy,  some  day.  But  they  require  the  local 
landscape  for  the  background ;  they  require  the  landscape. 
Such  essentially  idyllic  types  of  life  are  nothing  at  all  without 
their  natural  setting  of  olive  and  pine,  of  cactus  and  fan-palm. 
The  long  brook  falling  through  the  cloven  ravine,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing's  a  necessary  adjunct.  I  must  go  further  afield, 
and  keep  up  my  details." 

Le  Marchant  smiled,  for  he  knew  in  his  own  soul,  already,  what 
was  coming.  "  And  where  will  you  go  ?  "  he  asked,  as  inno- 
cently as  he  could. 

♦*  Why,  over  near  St.  Cloud,  I  think,"  Vernon  Blake  replied, 
perusing  the  canvas  ceiling;  "  there  are  some  jolly  bits  there. 
One  dear  little  shrine  in  particular,  on  a  tall  hillside,  all  hung  about 
with  rags  and  pilgrims'  offerings,  took  my  fancy  immensely  the 
last  time  we  were  over  there.  And  that  skittish  small  Frencl  - 
woman  told  me  the  other  day,  when  we  went  to  call  upon  her" — 
for  they  had  made  their  peace,  in  the  interval,  with  Madame 
I'Administratrice — •*  that  if  ever  I  happened  to  be  painting  over 
their  way,  it  would  give  her  and  Monsieur  all  the  pleasure  in  the 
world  if  I'd  drop  in  at  the  Fort  to  have  a  mouthful  of  luncheon. 
It's  convenient  having  a  place  where  one  can  get  a  feed,  you 
know."  And  he  fiddled  with  his  jack-knife,  trying  to  look  uncon- 
cerned and  unconscious. 

•*  Poor    Meriem  1  "    Le  Marcliant   murmured,    with    genuinp 
regret,  spreading  some  more  tinned  lobster  on  a  large  romid  sea 
biscuit. 

••  WeU,  I    never   pretended    I    really    oar«d    for  her."    BUk» 


101 


THB   XBNTI   or   8HE1I. 


answered  in  the  oblique  or;ition.  And  this  other  fl^'rl,  if  it 
cornea  to  that,  is  a  re.bl  i^jii^'lish  laJy,  and  worth  ten  thousand  of 
her.'" 

"  That's  a  matter  of  opinion,"  Le  Marchant  said,  stoutly. 

"  She's  too  learned  for  me,  though,"  Blake  went  on,  with 
some  latent  chagrin  in  his  tone.  *  Do  you  know  what  she  said 
about  Meriem,  yesterday  ?  She  obsorved,  quite  casual-like,  tlnil 
Genseric  and  his  Vandals — I  think  the  gentleman's  name  wa« 

enserio — ^must  have  left  their  mark  deep  on  the  soil  and  thM 
people  throughout  all  Mauritania.  By  Jove  I  I  didn't  know 
which  way  to  look.  I  never  heard  of  Mr.  Genserio  in  my  life 
before,  and  I  ocmldn't  tell  you  where  Mauritania  was,  or  is,  if  my 
neck  depended^upon  it.  That's  the  sort  of  girl  I  admire,  now, 
if  you  like.  Genseric  and  his  Vandals,  she  said,  as  pat  as  A  B  Ci 
—Genseric  and  bii  Vandals." 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  it'i  in  Gibbon,  you  know,  Thora's 
nothing  very  wonderful  in  her  having  read  tho  old  familiar 
'  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Rooshian  Empire.' " 

♦•  i  never  read  Gibbon,"  Blake  responded,  with  a  stolid  face. 

*•  Well,  it's  in  •  Murray's  Guide,'  then,  if  it  comes  to  that," 
Lb  Marohant  retorted,  without  venturing  to  observe  that  a  wo; nan 
might  have  read  far  more  than  Biake,  and  yet  by  no  means  Hot 
up  as  a  prodigy  of  learning.  "  It  seems  to  mo  far  more  surpris- 
ing, as  an  iiitjllectual  feat,  that  .\loriem,  bi'ou-,'l)fc  up  in  this  out- 
)f-the-way  village,  should  have  taught  hersolf  to  road  I'liiglisb, 
ill  of  her  own  accord,  than  that  Miss  Kiiyvoitt,  aided  and  abnt'tod 
:uid  egged  on  from  behind  by  a  /lo.s.sr  coiiiitattia  of  Girton  tuiors, 
should  have  crammed  herself  up  to  be  Third  Classic." 

••  Diiierent  men  have  diiferont  opinions."  Blake  quoted,  gaily  ; 
"  and,  for  my  art,  pinions  is  not  my  tnste.  I  willingly  resign 
vou  inv  share  in  Meriem.  She's  all  very  well  for  a  sunuuer 
flirtali  in,  I  grant  you — a  man  inust  annise  hiinsi^If — Init  to  com- 
pare her  for  one  second  to  that  heavenly  apparition  sent  to  be  a 
moment's  ornament,  in  the  riding-habit  and  hat  I  Why,  it 
makes  me  positively  angry  to  hear  you.  She's  a  phantom  of 
deliglit,  that's  what  I  call  her.  I'm  oil',  Eustace.  I  sha'n't  be 
back  till  six  hi  the  evening." 

He  trudged  across  to  St.  Cloud  on  foot ;  and,  being  a  prudent 
man,  so  he  flattered  himself  inw;inlly,  he  call'^d  before  begiiniing 
his  work  at  the  Fort  just  to  let  ?>liulaine  TAdmiiiistratrice  know 
beforehand  that  he  meant  to  specialise  her  general  iiivitatiou  and 
drop  in  to  luncheon  this  particular  nooiutay. 

Madame  l'Admmiutratric«  looked  pettishly  coquettisht 


^ 


/ 


.'      l-.y 


w^fmmmm* 


THB   TSMT8   OV   8H£U. 


157 


*•  While  we  were  all  by  ourselves,  monsieur,"  she  said,  with  a 
fetching  little  glance  towards  Ins,  "  you  laevtir  did  us  the  honour 
of  accepting  our  hospitality." 

Vernon  Blake  smiled  a  sheepish  smile.  lie  could  be  bold  as^ 
brass  before  poor  bare-footed  Meriem  ;  but  the  Third  Classic, 
that  awesome  English  heiress,  brought  out  at  once  all  the 
instinctive  shyness  of  his  underlying  nature. 

•'  W  liv,  I'm  gonig  to  paint  over  liere  to-day,"  he  stammered 
out  tiniilly,  in  his  best  Ollendurlf ;  "and  you  said,  you  know, 
whenever  1  came  over  you'd  do  me  the  honour  ox  allowing  mi 
to  Juiich  here." 

"  Oh,  mayn't  Madame  and  I  come  out  and  watch  you  ?  "  Irii- 
asked  with  genuine  interest  and  pleasure.  •*  But  perhaps  you 
don't  iilve  being  watched.  I've  never  seen  a  real  painter  iit  worl 
in  my  life,  do  you  know  ;  and  after  that  sweet  thing  of  yours  in 
the  (j losvenor  last  year,  I  should  love  to  find  out  exactly  how 
you  do  It." 

*'  I  shall  be  only  too  flattered,"  Blake  answered,  smiling,  tha; 
being,  in  fact,  the  precise  object  with  which  he  had  come  ovei 
.there.     Love  at  first  sight  w'as  the  name  of  his  nmiaily. 

"  And  may  I  go  too?  "  Mrs.  Knyvett  inquired,  ;m  iis-^ing  tin 
prominent  feature  full  upon  the  painter  with  a  benn'ii  snule. 

"  Oh,  not  for  the  world,  dear,"  Iris  interposed,  ear.ii  sily.  "It';: 
so  chilly  this  morning,  and  the  wind's  from  the  rnounttins,  and 
I  should  be  afraid  of  my  life  it'd  bring  on  your  bronclntis." 

r>lake  heard  this  veto  with  lively  satisfaction.  lie  fancied  from 
the  tone  it  was  not  perhaps  entirely  dictated  by  filial  solicitude 
Besides,  Madame  didn't  know  a  single  word  of  English,  and  w'as 
therefore  admirably  adapted  (from  the  point  of  view  of  giddy 
youth)  for  enacting  with  effect  the  part  of  the  common  or  garden 
gooseberry. 

They  strolled  out  together  to  the  point  on  the  hill-side  where 
Blake  had  decided  to  select  his  background  ;i  ;ty  little  dell 
by  a  Kabyle  road;  and  there  the  young  art  vith  those  big 
grey  eyes,  set  up  his  canvas  on  the  easel,  wnere  Meriem,  ol 
course,  as  central  figure  stood  already  painted-in  with  striking 
vigour.  It  was  a  graceful  form,  and  iris  admired  it  with  genuine 
admiration. 

"  How  beautifully  you  paint  these  people,"  she  said,  looking 
up  at  him.  "  You  seem  to  have  caught  their  spirit  to  the  very 
life.     Such  yiaivete  and  simplicity  ;  the  Kabyles  all  over." 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  Blake  answered,  blushing.  ••  Praise 
from  your  lips  is  indeed  commendation." 


#o 


lUK    TENTH    on    HiHtM, 


'tib  glance*!  timidly  asiile  at  Miuliune.     Ilalf-a-dozen  Kabyle 

'u^!s  iiad  gtiihereil,  u.s  was  their  wunt,  already  round  the  canvas 

)  see  the  intiilel  stranger  paint  ;  and  the   little  Frenchwoman, 

aving  drawn  a  senii-cirtiiliir  line  with  her  parasol  in  the  dust 

f  the  path  round  the  base  of  the  eanul,  was  congenially  engaged 

•1  rappnig  with  the  knohby  top  of  the  same  weapon  of  offence 

le  bare  toes  of  any  luckless  urchin  who  ventured  to  transgress 

er  prescribed  limit.     "  ihif  orcnimtitin  cntnme  une  autre,"  she 

>iid,  looking  up  with  a  good-huniourud  and  iniacliievoua  smile  at 

.ris.     "  Il/uiit  liien  t'aumscr.     Kl  juiiH  vu  leiw  ajiiicnd  le  respect  de 

fiittorite." 

"  Would  you  like  to  look  at  my  skotch-book  ?  '*  Blake  said  in 
'.nglish,  handing  it  to  the  amiable  'c/mjn'ron  as  he  spoke, 
tadame  took  it,  and  glanced  over  it  curcdessly.  It  was  not  in 
he  least  Parisian  ;  nothing  pi(juant  it  all  in  it ;  so  she  passed  it 
m  with  a  yawn  and  a  sigh  to  Iris.  Tun  minutes  later  she  was 
leginning  to  s'ennitijfr,  to  prevent  which  misfortune  she  buried 
:er  face  in  close  conmuniion  with  a  paper-covered  copy  oi 
")audet's  '*  Sapho,"  11.4  -rted  by  post  from  Algiers  yesterday. 

So  Iris  and  Blake,  left  to  themsulvus,  talked  on  for  an  hour 
iiiinterrupted.  By  that  time  Madaniu,  propped  against  a  tree, 
uid  fallen  asleep  quietly  over  her  Parisian  story. 

"  How  do  you  like  it  now  ?  "  Blake  anked  at  last,  standing  ofi 
I  foot  or  two,  and  surveying  his  own  handicraft  with  not  ungrace 
il  complacancy. 

"  It's  just  like  a  little  idyll  from  Theocritus,  Mr.  Blake,"  Iris 
ried,  admiringly.     •'  Doesn't  your  work  often  remind  you  while 
/ou're   painting   of   Theocritus  ?     It   seems   to    me  absolutely 
inspired  in  every  detail  by  the  true  old  naive  Dorian  feeling." 

•♦  1  haven't  read  Theocritus,"  Blako  answered,  modestly,  feei- 
ng bound  to  disclaim  the  honour  thus  thrust  upon  him.  "  To 
jell  the  truth,  I  don't  read  Latin  at  all,  Miss  Knyvett." 

•*  Oh,  don't  you  ?  "  Iris  cried,  with  a  faint  little  blush  of  sym- 

tathetic  shame  at  his  simple  blunder,     "  I'm  sorry  for  that,  for 

,hen  you've  never  had  the  pleasure  of  reading  the  Georgics  ;  and 

he  Georgics  to  you  would  be  like  flowers  to  the  bees — your 

lative  field,  your  predestined  pabulum.     Y(  u  d    revel   in    the 

Tcorgics,  I'm  quite  sure,  Mr.  Blake,  if  you    leul  Latin.     And 

vou  don 'tread  Greek,  then,  either,  of  courno;  tor  whoever  reads 

Homer  has  lirst  read  Virgil.  That's  a  pity,  too,  for  you'd  delight 

n  Theocritus.     The  scent  of  these  thyuiy   southern   hillsides 

dIows  through  every  line  of  his  Imw/.y  idylls,  as   whiirs  of  the 

tieather  blow  through  Wordsworth 'a  '  ICxcursion,'  and  the  per 


?  , 


1 


T'WP 


^ 


lllti    TKNTS    t»,      ni..,.>l. 


io'j 


:, 


i- 


! 


fume  of  tho  may  tLrough  lome  of  Tennyson's  English  ooxmtry 

pieces." 

"  So  Theocritus  wrote  in  ^reek,  did  he  ?  "  Blake  answered,  ill 
at  ease,  ruthlessly  exposing  his  own  hasty  mistake,  which  Iris 
had  endeavoured  so  gracefully  to  gloss  over  and  yet  prevent  for 
the  future.  *•  Then  I  made  a  stupid  ignorant  blunder  when  I 
thought  he  was  a  Latin,  Miss  Knyvett,"  and  he  paused  with  his 
brush  upturned,  "  you're  a  sight  too  clever  for  me  to  talk  to." 

*•  Not  clever,"  Iris  corrected.  "  Only  well-read.  I've  mugged 
it  up  out  of  books,  that's  all.  Anybody  can  mug  it  all  up  if  he'll 
only  take  tlie  pains.     I  had  to  at  Cambridge." 

"But  what  was  that  you  said  yesterday  about  Nausicaa  ?" 
Blake  went  on,  still  blushing.  "  I  wanted  to  ask  you  who 
Nausicaa  was;  and  just  then  I  was  really  afraid  and  ashamed 
to." 

•*  Oh,  Nausicaa  ?"  Iris  answered,  with  a  little  laugh.  "  She's 
in  the  Odyssey,  you  know  ;  the  daughter  of  Alcinous,  King  of 
Phieacia,  and  she  goes  with  her  maidens  to -wash  linen  by  the 
.seashore ;  and  there  she  finds  Odysseus  thrown  upon  the  coast ; 
and  then" — gliding  gently  over  the  dangerous  ground  with  a 
faint  blush,  for  even  a  Girton  girl  is  still  a  woman — ♦•  she  gives 
him  dry  things  and  takes  him  home  in  her  father's  chariot  to  the 
Court  of  Pha'acia." 

'•  It  sounds  like  good  ballad  poetry,"  Blake  answered,  interested. 
•'Worked  up  in  the  tyle  of  the  •  Earthly  Paradise,*  I  should 
thiuk  it  ought  to  make  very  graceful  verse." 

*'  I  wish  I  were  gonig  to  stop  here  longer,"   Iris  said,  quite 
seriously,  amused   at  his  inverted  way  of  looking   at  Homer, 
"  and   I'd   teach  you  Greek.      It's  a  grand  language     .     . 
and  I  can't  bear  to  think  you've  never  heard  the  bees  hum  in 
Theocritus." 

♦•  You'd  find  me  a  precious  bad  pupil,  I'm  afraid,"  Blake  went 
on,  with  a  sigh,  as  he  added  a  still  deeper  tinge  of  orange  to  the 
throat  of  the  great  Cretan  mullein  he  was  daintily  painting.  •'  I 
was  always  bad  at  anything  like  a  language." 

Iris  paused,  admiring  the  exquisite  depth  of  the  colour  in  the 
gorge  of  the  bell,  and  the  masterly  painting  of  the  whole  im- 
perial blossom.  Remembering  the  scraps  of  OUendorffian  French 
she  had  already  heard  him  stumble  through  v/ith  Madame 
TAdministratice,  she  began  to  fear  vaguely  in  her  own  soul  that 
her  new  hero  iiarl  by  no  means  under-estimated  his  own  very 
slender  linguist c  i^iqiabihties.  She  gazed  ftk  the  oauvas,  and 
tried  another  tack.  .     . 


S1I"PIB?^"^'^'W' .''.".',  I'f '*""^>W"'A.\|P»"i-'^«i;i-  "'■^^'T!''-!!  .i«)^ 'I ','''"!  i™«['"51^i'y7fW',':«>_»;uwiiii,(j|jiiH,iiiiFpiipiip^!^^|j|p 


.00 


Tl-.s'lS    '•.•     ^,l, 


*' AiUr  aJl,"  she  said,  with  [)(jnsive  head  on  one  aide  appre- 
oiative,  "why  should  I  wish  you  to  rottd  Theocrittis  at  all,  when 
I  see  you  are  in  all  essentials  a  Thencntns  already  '?  What  the 
Greek  tried  to  say  with  words  and  rhythm,  that  you  say  for  us 
here  in  visible  injages  with  i'orin  and  pif,nueiit.  The  same  grace, 
the  same  stu(lied  ease,  tlie  same  southi-jrii  rusticity,  the  same 
simple  naturalness.  Not)iin<,'  about  your  art  is  anywhere 
affected."  Her  own  thoughts  hurried  lier  on  too  far.  '•  You 
have  no  need  to  go  to  school  to  the  Greeks,"  she  went  on.  '*  You, 
a  poet-painter,  have  in  yourself  to  start  with  those  very  ideas 
which  we  ordinary  mortals  strive  to  haniiner  into  our  heads  by 
hard  practice  throu^'h  daily  itc(|uaiiitance  with  the  masterpieces  of 
hterature." 

Blake  look  !  '  rl<  nt  her  with  lus  bij^  eyes  full  of  childish 
wonder,  lie  lim-dly  knew  how  to  contain  himself  with  surprise. 
Delicate  flattery  is  dear  to  the  soul  of  every  one  of  us;  sympathy, 
appreciation,  encouragement  in  our  art — though  we  don't  often 
get  them  ;  but  that  she,  the  oiu;  woman  whom  lie  most  dreaded 
and  admired  on  earth,  whom  he  had  lain  awake  to  dream  of  all 
last  night,  should  thus  com|escend  to  put  him,  as  it  were,  upon 
her  own  level,  and  to  balance  his  gifts  with  hers,  not  wholly  to 
his  disadvantage — this,  indeed,  was  more  than  he  could  have 
hoped  or  prayed  for.  And  the  best  of  it  was,  in  a  shamefaced  way, 
in  that  back-corner  of  self-esteem  which  even  the  most  modest  of 
us  keeos  somewhere  penln  at  the  far-end  of  his  brain,  he  recog- 
nised himself  with  an  inward  blush  that  all  she  said  had  a  great 
leal  of  truth  in  it.  He  wan  a  poetic  painter  by  nature,  and  be 
felt  instnictively  tiie  underlying  kinship  between  work  hke  his 
own  and  the  best  pastoral  poetry.  But  Le  Marchant  had  never 
told  liiin  that.  Le  Marchant  had  never  casually  remarked  upon 
his  brotherhood  with  the  great  idyllic  poets.  No  one  but  she, 
that  incomparable  she,  in  her  noble  condescension,  had  ever  yet 
beheld  the  whole  genius  that  was  in  him. 

**  You're  very  kind,"  he  said,  one  blush  pervading  him  to  the 
roots  of  his  hair.  '*  You  somehow  make  me  feel  quite  at  home, 
at  once,  with  you.  Shall  I  confess,  now,  why  I  thought  The- 
ocritus wrote  in  Latin  ?  I  think  I  will.  Because  I  know  him 
only  through  Andrew  Lang's  ballad,  *  Where  breaks  the  blue 
Sicilian  sea.'  you  remember.  And  Sicilians,  I  fancied,  must 
surely  have  spoken  Latin,  because  now-a-days,  I  suppose,  they 
speak  Italian." 

'•  1  never  read  that  piece,"  Iris  answered,  unabashed. 

**  Ob,  let  me  repeat  it  then,"  Blake  cried,  enchanted  to  find  be 


'"•  *   ft'  -^ 


■^f    T"!  f!V^''i-'^  .  >' ;■"!.;  ■■f.:    ■  .•-'■jt--' '''■:■',•* 


Idl 


knew  something  she  didn't.  Toang  love  delighti  to  drop  into 
poetry ;  and  he  recited  it  all  through  with  a  sonorous  voice  to 
ills  listening  companion. 

Iris  followed  the  flow  of  these  dainty  lines  with  deep  attention. 
'^It'i  beautiful,"  she  said,  as  he  finished,  "simple  and  beautiful, 
like  your  own  p<?,inting." 

They  paused  awhile  ;  then  Iris  said,  once  more,  to  change  tne 
subject,  **  How  hot  it  is  here.  I'm  quite  thirsty.  I  should  love 
some  lemonade.     My  kingdom  for  a  lemon." 

niake  dropped  into  poetry  at  onoe  again.  The  mood  was  on 
Uiiu. 

Oh,  for  a  draft  of  vintAst  that  hti  been 
Oooled  a  long  age  in  the  deep-del vid  earth  f 

TftBtlng  of  Flor»  and  the  country  areen. 
Dance,  and  Frovotisal  ionR,  andiun  burnt  mirth t 

Oh,  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Vttll  of  the  true,  the  bluihful  Uippooreatl 


"(That's  pretty,  too,"  Iris  said,  admiring,  "And  in  thut 
Andrew  Lang  also?    Please  td\  it  all  to  me." 

Blake  started  in  surprise.  •'  What,  not  know  that  1 "  he  cried. 
••  Why,  it's  Keats,  of  course;  the  'Ode  to  a  Nightingale.'  I 
thought,  of  course,  you'd  have  read  that.  It's  a  lovely  thing. 
You  must  let  me  repeat  it  to  you." 

Iris  blushed  again.  •'  You'll  think  me  dreadfully  ignorant, 
I'm  afraid,"  she  said,  apologetically.  •*  I've  had  to  work  so 
h.iid  at  Greek  and  Latin  the  last  few  years,  that  I'm  afraid  I've 
rather  neglect<'i  tho  Engli^^h  poets  ;  while  your  mind  seems  to 
be  just  sa.turated  with  them  I  wish  I'd  read  them  as  nxuch  as 
you  have." 

Young  love  is  always  frankly  self-conscious.  "  How  quickly  a 
woman  finds  out  all  that's  in  one,"  he  cried,  delighted.  "  So 
much  faster  tha.n  a  man.  I've  livod  with  Le  Marchantsi>:  ^nonths 
in  a  tent,  and  except  for  a  certain  manual  doftnoas  in  painting 
pictures,  I  don't  believe  he's  ever  found  out  thwi«'s  anything  in 
me." 

Iris  dropped  her  pretty  eyelashes  with  a  demure  droop, — 
for  all  the  world  like  any  ordinary  girl,  who  has  not  been  to 
Cambridge.     "  Mr.  Le  Marchant's  a  mere  man  of  science,'"  she 


■aid,  slowly.     "  Perhaps 
more  in  common.' 


you  and  I 


have 


U  ^.  -!  iiiifAip<<!^^np^npHiHipn«l^ii^ 


W»PI«^S^I»»  11.11,  J. Ill  li^. 


l^»"«'  ""^ 


^-^ 


162 


Vernon  Blak*  tramped  back  to  the  tent  that  night,  np  the 
steep  path,  with  that  painfol  malady  strong  apon  him.  It  made 
his  heart  go  thmnp,  thump,  thomp.  And  as  he  tramped,  he 
said  to  himself  a  hundred  times  over  in  an  eostaoy  of  delight, 
"  Here  by  God's  grace  is  the  one  maid  fox  me,"  as  Geramt  said 
when  he  &iAi  saw  £2ud» 


/    . 


(     / 


>< 


-.    /. 


^-  V- 


/  /■ 


e 
e 


",W7"  T 


l«» 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


THK    OLAIMANT'B    0AS8    OOLLAPSCt. 

For  the  next  fortnight,  Vernon  Blake's  single-hearted  devotion 
to  landscape  waa  rtally  notliing  short  of  exemplary.  The  ti^nire, 
at  least  as  a  subject  for  artistic  study,  seemed  suddonly  to  have 
lost  for  him  all  interest  or  attriiction.  He  tramped  it  over  to 
Ht.  Cloud  every  morning  re<i;ularly,  across  the  weary  pass,  and 
painted  away  at  the  background  of  his  big  [Jiclure  with  a  steadi- 
ness of  aim  and  forgetfulness  of  fatigue  that  would  have  deserved 
the  highest  commendation — in  an  older  man.  Almost  every 
morning,  too,  by  some  strange  coincidence,  Iris  somehow  hap- 
pened to  be  passing  casually,  and  to  look,  for  a  few  minutes  at 
least  as  she  passed,  at  the  progress  of  the  handsome  young 
painter's  work. 

One  would  almost  have  fancied  they  both  did  it  on  purpose, 
were  such  suspicions  possible  about  a  Third  Classic,  liut  Girton 
girls,  of  course,  like  Caesar's  wife,  are  above  suspicion. 

"Don't  you  think,  perhaps,  he's  a  trifle  dangerous,  Tom?" 
Mrs.  Knyvett  asked  more  than  once  of  her  astute  brother. 

And  the  eminent  Q.C.,  who  flattered  himself  he  had  a  keen 
nose  for  the  trail  of  a  fortune-hunter,  answered  off-hand,  "No, 
no,  Amelia,  not  he.  He's  an  innocent,  ignorant  young  man,  the 
painter.  Not  at  all  the  sort  of  person  ever  likely  to  fall  in  love 
with  a  girl  like  Iris  ;  and  certainly  not  at  all  the  sort  of  person  a 
girl  like  Iris  is  ever  the  least  likely  to  fall  in  love  with.  lie  doesn't 
knov?  a  quarter  enough  for  her,  bless  you.  It's  that  clever  Le 
Marchant  fellow  that  we've  got  to  steer  clear  of." 

In  which  confident  prediction  Uncle  Tom  waa  so  fully  justified 
by  the  facts  of  the  case  tliat  before  the  first  fortnight  was  well 
over  Iris  caught  herself  looking  out  with  a  beating  heart  every 
morning  from  her  windows  in  the  Fort,  to  see  if  the  painter, 
with  his  easel  on  his  back,  was  trudging  down  the  hill ;  and 
Vernon  Blake  on  his  side  caught  himself,  with  a  similar  flutter 
under  his  waistcoat  watch-pocket,  waiting  for  the  slightest  rustle 
of  a  certain  dainty  morning-dress  against  the  lentisk  bushes  of 
the  hedge,  as  he  stood  and  painted  with  trembling  fingtrs  at  that 
intorounabl^  back-ground. 


T«r 


164 


IS    T£NT8   Ok'   bHEll. 


Irig  saw  a  great  deal  all  these  days  of  Menem  also  :  f(ir  T^nr'e 
Tom  hiul  now  procured  the  philological  services  o>  a  uiio-eyet' 
Maltese — official  interprotor  to  the  Commune  of  St.  Cloud — u 
whose  aid  in  speaking  the  Kabyle  tongue  he  availed  himself  freels 
in  his  legal  inquiries  ;  and  though  Iris  htrsulf  was  liencefortli 
strictly  excluded  from  these  severe  interviews  as  a  daiigerous 
personage  to  her  own  cause,  she  generally  rode  across  with  her 
uncle  to  the  Beni-Mcrzoug  mountain,  and  sat  among  the  bare 
focks  outside,  chatting  with  JNIeriem,  while  the  great  Q.C.,  the 
Amine,  and  the  Kabyles  generally  were  endeavouring  to  arrive, 
by  question  an  answer,  through  the  medium  of  the  one-eyed 
Maltose's /English,  at  some  possible  mode  of  understanding  one 
another's  respective  ideas.  Oriental  or  Western. 

On  one  such  occasion  Uncle  Tom  came  over  in  high  glee, 
primed  for  the  final  enquiry  of  all,  to  which  his  careful  researcl' 
among  the  archives  of  St.  Cloud  had  now  ultimately  narroweu 
itself.     He  had  no  doubt  by  this  time  in  his  own  mind  that  a 
good   deal   of  the   Claimant's   story   was   true — that   Clarence 
'(ni^-vett,  afti  r  enlisting  at  Toulon  as  Joseph  Leboutillier,  had  ■ 
i-eal'y   run   away   from   the  Third  Chasseurs,  out  of  pique  or 
Qui  otism,  ana  taken  refuge  among  the  Kabyles  under  the  name 
)1  i'usuf.     He   hud  discovered  further,  from  the  Actes  de  V Ktut 
Cicil  at   St.   Cloud,  that  the  fugitive  had  survived  liis  brother 
Alexander  by  several  months,  and  therefore,  in  accoi'dance  with 
the  blundering   terms  of  the  old  Admiral's  will,  possessed  the, 
power  of  bequeathing  the   family  pr  i)erty  to  whomsoever  he 
chose,  provided  only  he  died  in  the  position  af  a  father  to  lawful 
issue,   by  ICnglish  usage   recognised  as  such,    and    then    only. 
Hence,  the  one  point  Uncle  Tom  had  still  to  investigate  was  the^  . 
very  simple  one  whether  Clarence  Knyvett's  marriage  with  Halima^ 
Meriem's  mother,  was  in  the  eyes  of  the  Probate  and  Divorce, 
:")i vision  a  true  wedlock  or  a  purely  polygamous  and  non- Christian 
inion.     And  that  he  could  prove  this  sole  rerrain^ng  point  to  his, 
wn  satisfaction  he  had  very  little  doubt  indeed.     The  proof,  to, 
'i  sure,  would  not  satisfy  Iris's  extreme  views  as  to  Ar'  /   '^'ian 
juity ;    but  it  would  amply  satisfy  the  scrupl-s  o^  in  English 
udge  ;  and  that  was  quite  enough  for  Unci  The  great 

Blackstone  had  pronounced  the  union  a  meret  is  one.     U     le 

Pom  didn't  for  a  moment  doubt  that  Iris  h.  if  coi  J  be  per- 
suaded in  the  end  to  agree  with  the  great  Blacks  jne  on  the 
'egal  issue,  to  compromise  Meriem's  shadowy  claims  for  somQ 
-^mail  anuoity,  and  to  enjoy  her  own  good  and  undoubted  titl^ 


mi^imm 


^m 


^ 


mmm 


■  AiU-WpJI 


TBI   TSMTl   0»   IHSll. 


165 


lo  the  estate  without  further  dreams  of  a  Quixotic  and  nnpractica.1 

natural  justice. 

On  this  particular  morning,  therefore,  UnoU  Tom  sat  onder 
the  open  corridor  of  th«  Amine's  cottage,  endeavouring  for  the 
tenth  time  at  least  to  cross-examine,  in  his  familiar  Chancery 
Lane  style,  these  very  unpromising  and  incomprehensible  wit- 
nsssGs. 

It  was  hard,  indeed,  to  drag  anything  out  of  them  ;  their 
Oriental  imagery  clouded  from  the  eminent  Q.C'.'s  Occidental 
mind  their  underlyinj?  meaning.  But  at  last  I'ncleTom  had 
begun  to  discover  a  right  mode  of  approach,  and  to  pin  the  Amine 
down,  step  by  step,  to  something  like  a  consistent  statement  of 
plain  history. 

I  "Ask  him,"  Uncle  Tom  remarked  to  the  inttvpreter,  with 
severe  emphasis,  ••  whether  he  was  present  himself  on  the  parti- 
pular  occasion,  when  his  sister  Halima,  or  whatever  else  her 
outlandish  name  may  be,  was  married  to  the  man  they  call 
Yu?uf.*'    . 

i  •♦  He  says,  of  courf'.3  he  was,"  the  one-eyed  Maltese  responded 
clieerfully,  as  the  Amine,  with  innumerable  nods  and  gestures, 
expressed  his  assent  volubly  in  many  guttural  notes  to  the  ques- 
t.on  proposed  to  him. 

••  Ask  him  once  more,"  Uncle  Tom  continued,  with  an  austere 
countenance,  "if  there  was  any  written  contract  of  marriage." 

'•He  says,  Allah  is  greiit,  and  it  is  not  the  custom  with  the 
sons  of  the  Kabyles,"  the  interpreter  replied,  again  translating, 
with  his  one  eye  fixed  firmly  on  the  barrister's  face. 
!    ••  Then  what  was  the  ceremony  performed  at  the  wedding  ?  " 
TJncle  Tom  went  on,  with  malicious  joy. 

'•  He  says,  the  All-Merciful  was  pleased  to  prosper  him ;  he 
got  twenty  francs  and  a  Fn.nch  Government  nl!e  for  her,"  the 
interpreter  replied,  with  his  gravest  expression. 

Uncle  Tom  was  delighted,  though  he  feigned  surprise,  and  with 
difficulty  repressed  a  triumT^hant  smile.  Nothing  could  be  more 
beautifully  barbaric  than  this.  Twenty  francs  and  a  Government 
rifle  I  If  ever  the  case  should  come  into  an  English  Court,  which 
wasn't  likely,  the  leair.:>d  iudge.  Uncle  Tom  felt  certain,  would 
dismiss  Miss  Meriem  at  once  v,~it^  '•osts  on  the  mere  strength  of 
that  one  feeble  and  fatuous  admissior. 

"  But  the  ceremony  I  "  Uncle  Tom  objected,  with  a  severe  face, 
trying  to  look  shocked.  ••  The  religious  sanction?  The  obliga- 
tion or  bond  ?    The  nexus  vuitiimoniif    They  must  surely  have 


iOU 


TUtf    I'AftMl'tt   OJr   UkiKU. 


sometlii  'i;  p-^-- 


f 


•ft  rude  tribeu  in  the  nature  of  a  wcddiny 


Thsy  don't  i .„v  it.a  matter  as  the  fowls  of  the  air  would,  d« 

they,  surely  ?  " 

"He  says,  a  rniin  wIk)  knows  how  to  read  Arabic,  recites  tht- 
first  and  fourth  <;)..,  i  -.  ■.  ■)(  tho  Koran,"  the  interpreter  replied, 
"and  then  the  !  ii.->iiiirid  pays  the  contract  price,  and  they  eat  a 
dish  of  rons-tuLUi  tw.,i  u.v;i',  und  the  parties  thenceforth  are  con- 
sidered marriod." 

Uju  '"  Tom  rubbed  his  hands  togetli^r  ^nily.     ••  Confarreatio ! " 
'ip  nil!  •  Hired  to  hiniKclf.     ♦•  Heathen  cunjorreatiot  not  Christian 
i.aiii.i^'e. — And  that  waH  all  t))at  took  place  in  this  case  ?"  he 
asked  '■'      \  with  coi:fii<'      '  'c  utwtion. 

'•0  I,  '  thu  iiiterpreu  )•  lupUod,  after  consulting  his  principal ; 
"  there  was  moro  than  tiiul.  the  Amine  remarks  ;  much  feasting 
.:nd  dancing  tcyok  pliutn  in  the  house,  and  quantities  of  £gs  and 
of  c-.m.s-foMs  were  t'utcn." 

•'  But  there  was  no  my\  f)f  wedding  or  marriage  ceremony  bo- 
fore  the  French  auLlnuii.,  >  >  "  Uncle  Tom  insisted;  "no  going 
before  the  Priest  or  tJui  Ahiire  for  example,  or  anybody  of  that 
sort?" 

*'  The  Amine  says,  do  you  take  him  for  a  dog?  "  the  interpreter 
inswered,  with  an  unmoved  face.  "  \>  as  his  sister  a  Christian, 
that  she  should  do  tJieso  things  ?  Have  not  all  his  people  bueii 
•eckoned  among  the  staunoliOHt  of  the  Faitliful since  the  beginninL- 
)f  time,  and  is  not  he  himself  lineally  descended  from  the  Glory 
of  Islam,  the  Star  of  the  Atlas,  the  holy  saint  Sidi  Mohammed 
of  the  Ujurjura?  " 

Uncle  Tom  was  almost  satisfied  now,  but  he  thought  it  well 
Lo  ask  just  one  more  question  before  he  considered  the  point  as 
rmally  settled.  ♦•  Ask  tho  man,"  he  said  once  more,  witli  his 
sauvest  voice,  to  make  security  doubly  sure,  •'  whether  polygamy 
is  lawful  among  his  countrymen,  the  Kabyles  ?  " 

"  The  Amine  replies,  unhappily  his  people  are  too  poor  to  be 
able  to  afford  more  than  one  wife  apiece,"  the  interpreter  an- 
swered. *'  The  Arabs,  who  are  richer,  have  often  more.  Herds 
)f  camels  and  many  wives  are  theirs.  But  the  law  of  the  Pro- 
phet is  alike  for  all.  There  is  but  one  Koran  for  Arab  or  Kabyle. 
Let  not  the  Faithful  set  themselves  up  against  the  customs  of 
Islam.  In  common  with  all  other  true  Moslems,  the  Kabyles 
.may  have  four  wives  apiece,  if  they  choose,  after  the  example  of 
the  ever-blessed  Prophet  Mohammed,  and  the  glorious  and  vio- 
torious  Caliph  Omar." 


:'V 


turn   TSNTB   OF   SUJUf. 


167 


Unole  Tom  chuckled  audibly  to  himself  at  the  naive  reply 
The  learned  judge  would  know  very  well  how  to  deal  with  a  so 
called  marriage  of  that  sort.  A  polygamous  union  of  no  lega 
value  I  The  case  was  practically  closed  now.  The  Claimani 
.vas  not  Clarence  Knyvett's  lawful  heir,  according  to  the  require 
ments  of  English  law.  Uncle  Tom  had  vindicated  the  sanctit; 
of  Christian  wedlock.  He  had  confounded  the  wiles  of  tliat  art 
ful  Le  Marchant.  He  fait  his  bosom  swell  with  an  honest  pride 
Twenty  francs  and  a  Government  rifle,  indeed  1  The  Claimant'f 
cause  had  collapsed  utterly* 


■f  1 . 


!  i 


\-      ^ 


1 


J  ;-5 


^ 


ij 


fmt  im'i^  oji  i^HKii. 


' 


CHAPTER  XXVL 


■a-: 


TWO    MAIDENS. 

Outside,  meanwliile,  upon  the  rocks  under  the  p^narled  olri 
olives  on  the  slope,  Mcriem  and  Iris  sat  and  talked  hard  by,  liki 
two  listers  who  had  lived  with  one  another  for  a  whole  lifetime. 
Bare-footed,  one,  and  a  Girton  girl  the  other,  that  fortnight  had 
brought  them  very  close  togetlicr.  It  seemed  to  Meriera  as  if 
for.  the  first  time  in  all  her  life  she  had  found  a  girl  friend  to 
whom  she  could  confide  what  was  innermost  and  most  profound- 
ly sacred  within  her. 

"  I  suppose.  Iris,"  she  said,  in  her  simple,  childlike  way, 
peeping  out  from  her  robe  with  half  coquettish  shyness,  "  the 
English  part  of  me  has  only  just  begun  quite  lately  to  awaken. 
Before  Vernon  and  Eustace  came  here  to  camp,  I  had  never  seen 
any  English  people  at  all,  you  see,  except  only  Yusuf." 

'•  Uncle  Clarence,  you  mean,"  Iris  suggested,  half  starting. 

•'  He  was  Yusuf  to  me  while  he  lived,"  Meriem  answered, 
with  a  grave  and  serious  look,  taking  her  new  friend's  hand  in 
her  own,  as  was  her  wont ;  ••  and  he  shall  be  Yusuf  to  me  always 
as  long  as  I  live,  whatever  his  English  people  may  have  called 
him.  Well,  you  see,  dear,  till  Vernon  and  Eustace  came  to 
camp  here,  I  hardly  remembered  or  understood  anything  much 
of  what  Yusuf  had  told  me.  My  English  even  was  just  a  little 
girl's,  I  suppose  ;  at  least  .it  was  a  great  deal  simpler  and  scantier 
than  what  I  speak  now ;  for  when  Yusuf  died  I  was  only  a  child, 
and  all  I  knew  was  so  vague  and  childish." 

"  But  how  old  are  you  now,  Meriem  ?  "  her  cousin  asked, 
looking  hard  at  her  strong  fair  face,  with  no  little  wonderment. 
*•  It  isn't  so  long  since  Uncle  Clarence's  death.  You  can't  have 
been  so  very  childish  thon,  you  know." 

'*  I'm  sixteen  now,"  Meriem  answered,  after  a  short  attempt 
to  recollect  exactly.  *•  Bo  I  must  have  been  a  Uttle  over  twelve 
wh«B  Yusuf  died,  you  see." 


'H; 


TH£    TENTS    OF    SHKM. 


169 


Irii  started.  *•  No  more  than  sixteen  I  "  she  cried.  •*  Why, 
Meriem,  you  look  as  old  as  I,  and  I'm  twenty -three  my  next 
birthday." 

•'  But  in  the  south,"  Meriem  said,  '*  I've  always  heard  we  girls 
grow  to  be  women  a  great  deal  earlier  than  in  colder  countries. 
I  suppose  that's  the  Kabyle  half  of  my  nature  :  though  I  seem 
to  feel,  since  Vernon  and  you  came,  I'm  a  great  deal  more  Eng- 
lish than  Kabyle  at  bottom.  I  seem  to  get  so  much  nearer  to 
you  than  I  ever  could  to  Ahmed  or  Ayeslia." 

•'  Then  you've  learnt  to  speak  Enghsh  much  better  of  late," 
Iris  asked,  musingly. 

♦♦  Oh,  yes,"  Meriem  answered  ;  *'  ever  so  much  better.  I've 
learnt  to  express  myself  so  much  more  easily.  Since  Vernon 
came,  he  and  I  have  been  talking  together  almost  all  the  time. 
And  I've  learned  to  read  English  too,  you  see  ;  that's  taught  me 
a  great  many  words  and  ideas  I  hadn't  got  in  my  head  before. 
It  seems  as  if  I  learnt  more  quickly  than  was  possible.  Not  at 
•ill  like  learning  to  read  the  Koran.  More  like  remembering, 
a  nost,  than  learning." 

Love  is  a  most  successful  teacher  of  languages. 

♦*  I  expect,"  Iris  suggested,  after  a  moment's  thought,  "  your 
English  nature  had  been  growing  up  slowly,  though  never  de- 
veloping, for  want  of  opportunity  ;  and  when  these  two  young 
men  came,  and  you  had  English  companionship,  it  burst  out  at 
once,  like  a  dormant  faculty,  into  full  activity." 

"  I  think  so,"  Modem  answered,  catching  at  once  at  the  ker- 
nel of  her  meaning,  though  some  of  the  wonls  that  enveloped  it 
were  still  unfamiliar  to  her.  "  I  think  1  must  have  grown  like 
a  flower  does,  you  know,  before  it  opens,  and  the  moment  the 
right  time  for  unfolding  arrived,  I  must  have  opened  naturally 
when  the  sunshine  fell  upon  me." 

*•  What  sun,shiijf  ?  "  Iris  asked  with  a  quiet  smile. 

Meriem  had  it  in  her  heart  to  answer  simply  and  truthfully, 
"  Vernon's  ;  "  but  a  certain  strange  shvness  she  had  never  felt 
before  in  her  life  restrained  her  somehow,  and  she  answered  in- 
stead, quite  prettily,  "  Yours,  Iris." 

The  Third  Classic  leant  forward,  pleased  at  the  compliment, 
and  laid  her  white  hand  on  Meriem's  neck,  caressingly.  As  she 
did  so,  she  touched  the  little  box  locket  that  Merien  wore  round 
her  throat  always.  The  girl  drew  back  with  a  half-startled  look. 
*•  Don't  touch  it,"  she  cried.  •'  You  musn't  take  tliat  off.  It 
was  Yusuf  himself  who  hung  that  charm  there,  and  he  told  me 
[  must  Qdvep,  never  let  any  one  except  myself  handle  it." 


170 


ffXS   TKNTS   Of   tHlM 


Iris  withdrew  her  caressing  fingera,  half  hurt  at  the  rebuff. 
"  I  see  all  jrou  Rabyle  girla  wear  them,"  she  said,  less  cordially. 
"  What  is  there  in  them  ?  " 

"  Some  of  them  have  a  little  red  hand  for  laok,"  Men'r"- 
answered,  half-blushing  with  ingenuous  shame,  "and  "^omf^ 
the  bone  of  a  great  saint,  or  a  white  rag  of  his  blessed  clot 
and  some  have  charms  against  the  evil  eye,  and  soma  havo  .. 
verse  from  the  holy  Koran." 

"  But  what's  in  yours  ?  "  Iris  persisted,  once  more. 

"  I  don't  know,"  Meriem  answered.  I've  never  looked.  It 
was  Yusuf  who  hung  it  there.  He  told  me  to  keep  it  very  care- 
fully." 

"  But  you  ought  to  look,  I  think,"  Iris  went  on,  with  insistence. 
"  Do  let  me  take  it  off  just  once  to  see  I  Perhaps  it  may  be 
something  very  important." 

Meriem  drew  back  with  the  same  startled  and  terrified  look  as 
before. 

•*  Oh,  don't  touch  it,  Iris ;  don't  touch  it,"  she  cried.  ••  Why, 
I  wouldn't  let  even  Vernon  himself  touch  it." 

It  was  Iris's  turn  to  start  back  now.  Vernon,  Vernon  always 
Vernon  !  A  shade  of  displeasure  passed  for  a  moment  over  her 
bright  face. 

♦'  You  seem  very  fond  of  Mr.  Blake,"  she  said,  chillily.  ••  And 
why  do  you  always  call  him  Vernon  ?  " 

•'  He  told  me  too,"  Meriem  answered,  looking  up  into  her 
pretty  English  cousin's  eyes  with  vague  wonder  and  hesitancy. 
"He  said  it  was  the  right  way  to  call  him  in  Enghsh." 

"  Not  for  a  girl,''  Iris  objocted,  decidedly.  "Girls  don't  call 
men  by  their  names  like  that.  I  called  him  *  Mr.  Blake,'  don't 
vou  notice,  Meriem  '?  " 

"  Wei),  I  called  him  Blake,  too,  at  first,"  Meriem  went  on, 
much  puzzled  at  this  strange  discrepancy  it<f  v^en  her  two 
teachers ;  '•  and  Eustace  and  he  laughed  at 
They  told  me  only  men  did  so  in  England.  A 
call  him  by  the  name  he's  got  for  being  a  Chris 

"  By  his  Christian  name  I  "  Iris  cried,  disapj^i 
no,  Meriem  ;  not  unless — unless  they're  awfully 
home   together.     Only,  you  know,    when   the\  \i 
another  ever  so  long,  and  like  one  another  oh — just  imniensGly  I" 

"  Well,  I  liJke  Vernon  just  immensely,"  Munem  answered, 
smiling. 

Why?  "  Iri«  asked,  with  sharp  decisioiu 


n'   doing  it. 

I  ought  to 

v^ernon." 

y.     ••  Oh, 

te  and  at 

.vuown   one 


«« 


THK  TBNT8  OF   8HBM 


171 


Who  can  tell?    BecauBe  he   paints  and  talki  bo  beantifully, 
I  suppose,"  Meriem  replied,  evasively. 

A  strange  doubt  rose,  vague  and  undefined'  in  Iris's  mind. 
Till  that  moment,  the  terrible  thought  had  never  even  occurred 
to  her.  She  knew  that  Vernon  Blake  had  constantly  painted  the 
beautiful  Kabyle  girl,  and  had  reproduced  her  faultless  form  in 
every  attitude  of  that  simple  idyllic  mountain  life  -with  brush  and 
with  pencil ;  but  it  had  never  struck  her  as  possible,  any  more  than 
it  had  struck  Yernon  Blake  himself,  than  anything  more  serious 
than  mere  artistic  admiration  could  enter  into  his  feelings  towards 
the  fair  barbarian.  Iris  was  immensely  taken  with  Meriem  in 
her  own  way  "he  novelty  and  freshness  of  the  situation  interested 
and  amused  v.  She  had  greeted  her  half-wild  Mohammedan 
cousin  sympaLiietically,  with  a  cousinly  frankness,  and  had  for- 
gotten, as  far  as  a  woman  can  forget,  the  great  gulf  fixed  for  ever 
between  them.  But  the  gulf  was  vaguely  there  in  the  back- 
ground all  the  time  for  all  that.  Meriem  was  to  Iris  a  charming 
and  interesting  and  attractive  savage,  but  a  savage  still  at  bottom 
in  spite  of  everything.  She  could  never  believe  that  Vernon 
Blake,  that  poetic  soul,  that  exquisite  artist,  as  she  herself  had 
found  him  in  their  brief  intercourse,  could  dream  of  throwing 
himself  away  for  life  upon  a  mere  graceful  and  beautiful  wild 
creature  like  Meriem. 

And  more  than  that,  far,  Iris  felt  at  that  moment.  The 
human  heart  (at  twenty-three)  is  a  most  plastic  object.  She 
had  known  Vernon  Biake  for  a  fortnight  only,  but  she  woke  up 
all  at  once  at  those  stray  words  of  Meriem's  to  a  vivid  conscious- 
ness that  henceforth  he  was  indeed  a  part  of  her  life,  a  factor  in 
her  history  she  could  never  again  get  rid  of,  for  good  or  for  evil. 
From  the  very  first  time  she  ever  saw  him,  it  had  been  Vernon 
Blake  all  day  and  all  night  with  her.  Vernon  Blake  had  echoed  in 
her  brain  and  reverberated  through  her  being.  If  not  love  at 
first  sight  on  her  side,  as  on  his,  it  was  at  any  rate,  interest — a 
profound  interest,  an  indefinable  charm,  an  irresistible  attraction. 
**  Do  you  love  him,  Meriem  ?  "  she  asked,  suddenly. 
Meriem  looked  back  at  her  with  perfect  frankness.  To  the 
Kabyle  girls  of  her  village  she  would  never  have  said  a  single 
word  on  that  sacred  subject.  She  could  never  have  confided  to 
them  her  love  for  a  siranger,  and  that  stranger  an  infidel.  But 
Iris,  as  she  said,  hke  Vernon  himself,  had  roused  the  half-awak- 
ened English  side  of  her  nature.  To  Iris  she  felt  she  could 
confide  everything,  as  an  Kn.ylish  girl  confides  in  her  bosom 
friend,  freely   and   unrescirvual)'.     She  glanced,  with  a  certain 


i 


4'*:  I'- 


172 


THX  TXNTl  Of  tRni. 


amount  of  shynos3.  but  with  no  pretence  at  oonooalment,  at  her 
dainty  little  cousin,  as  she  answered,  sinipW, 

"  I  love  him,  Iris,  as  I  never  could  have  loved  one  of  our  own 

people. 

*•  An  does  he  love  yon  ?  "  Iris  asked,  with  a  spasm. 

Meriem's  brow  puckered  up  a  little.  ♦•  I  don't  know,"  she 
sttid,  in  a  hesitating  voiue,  pulling,'  graHSOfl  from  the  crannies  of 
the  rock  as  she  si)oke.  "  I  can't  make  quite  sure.  You  see,  Irig, 
I  don't  undtrcitand  your  Knj,^liHh  wayH ;  and  thoup;h  I've  been 
readini^  English  novels  and  trying  to  uiidorstand  them,  I'm  not 
so  certain  that  I've  really  quite  uudorHtood  it  all  yet.  Sometimes 
I  think  he  does  love  me,  beoauso  he  talks  80  beautifully  to  me, 
and  takes  my  face  between  his  hands —like  this,  you  know;  and 
sometimes,  when  he  gets  so  flippant  and  strange,  and  talks  such 
nonsense,  I  think  he  doesn't  really  care  one  bit  for  me,  but  only 
just  wants  to  amuse  himself  a  little — like  what  they  call  flirting  in 
the'  English  novuls.  Kabyles  don't  flirt ;  we  don't  understand  it. 
The  last  fortnight,  especially,  he's  been  often  so.  He's  hardly 
taken  any  notice  at  all  these  days  of  me.  ....  But  then, 
you  see,  he  says  he's  done  (juite  enough  figures,  now,  and  he 
wants  to  go  on  painting  at  what  he  calls  the  background." 

Ins  looked  hard  at  her  with  a  vay;iie  misgiving.  "  Meriem," 
she  said,  gasping,  "has  he  .  .  •  •  has  he  ever  said  very 
itiuch — you  know  how — to  you  ?  " 

Meriem  thought  deeply  for  a  moment  how  to  express  her  ideas 
before  she  spoke.  Then  she  answered  slowly,  with  great  difficulty, 
'•  I  think  he's  talked  to  me  ...  .  well,  it's  so  awfully  hard 
for  me  to  say,  of  course,  because  our  Kahyle  men  don't  make  lovei 
you  know,  as  you  do  in  England.;  they  buy  U8  and  pay  for  us; 
it's  a  matter  of  bargaining,  like  one  does  at  market  .  .  .  bu« 
I  think,  Iris,  he's  often  talked  to  me  «  «  *  »  the  way  they 
make  love  in  the  English  novels." 

"  And  taken  your  face  in  his  hands,  flo,"  Trfs  went  on,  trem- 
bling, and  holding  Meriem's  beauLilul'  shapely  head  between  her 
palms,  ns  she  spoke. 

"  Yes,  just  80,  Iris,"  Meriem  answered,  half  whispering.  Her 
face  wa.H  like  a  red  rose  now.  "Do  you  think  .  ..  •  do 
you  thni!<,  dear,  that  means  anything?" 

Tlie  1-^ngJish  girl's  heart  beat  hard  hut  slow,  with  long  leaps 
and  throbs,  as  she  asked  again,  faintly,  "  And  kissed  you, 
Meriem  ?  " 

••^Yos,"  Meriem  answered,  in  the  aamn  soft  voice,  getting 
frightened  now,     "  Was  it  wrong  of  mo.  Iris  ?    •    .    .    .    I  was 


n 


i.  -'■"j,  ',■■••,:  -■    ■' 


'I 


^^m 


THE    TENTS    UF    8UEM. 


173 


afraid  it  wna  wrong.  I  told  him  I  thought  so — that  he  oughtn't 
to  do  it.  l>ut  he  qnly  laughed  at  me  and  said,  oli  no,  people 
always  kissed  like  that  in  England.  Out  here,  in  Kabylie,  you 
Know,  men  never  kiss  a  girl,  of  course — not  a  nice  girl,  I  mean — 
till  they've  bought  her  and  paid  for  her,  and  the  Taleb  has  read 
a  chapter  of  the  Koran  over  them.  But  in  England,  Vernon 
:3aid  it;  wasn't  like  that ;  that  you  didn't  think  it  at  all  wrong  ; 
and  in  the  English  novels — for  I  looked  on  purpose  - 1  saw  that 
all  the  young  men  and  girls  kissed  one  another  quite  freely 
when  ....  when  they  were  really  and  truly  fond  of  one 
another.  So  I  thought  Vernon  must  he  really  and  truly  fond  of 
me,  as  he  kissed  me  so  often.  Was  it  awfully  wrong  of  me, 
Iris  ?  I  could'nt  ask  Fatma  or  Ayesha,  you  see,  because  they 
wouldn't  know  ;  and  if  it  was  wrong,  I  didn't  really  mean  it." 

'•  No,  not  wrong,  dear,"  Iris  answered,  with  a  spasmodic  gulp, 
"but — but — Oh,  Meriem  I"  And  she  broke  down  suddenly,  and 
burst  at  once  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

Her  heart  was  full  almost  to  bursting.  If  for  one  short  mo- 
ment die  thought  harshly  of  Meriem,  who  could  blame  her  ?  It 
was  surely  natural.  Was  this  barefooted  Kabyle  girl,  a  mere 
waif  of  the  mountains,  to  take  away  from  her  at  one  fell  swoop — 
and  of  just  right,  too — everything  on  earth  she  most  pri/.od  and 
cherished  ?  A  month  ago,  she  had  never  seen  Sidi  Aia.  To- 
day, slie  was  willing  to  give  up  Sidi  Aia  to  Meriem — it  was 
Mefiem's  own.  Had  she  not  indeed  come  over  to  Algeria  fqr 
that  very  purpose  ?  A  fortnight  ago  she  had  never  seen  Vernon 
Blake.  To-day,  she  could  not  give  up  her  painter  to  j\leriem 
without  tearing  at  the  very  roots  and  fibres  of  her  heart.  Till 
then  she  had  never  known  how  deep  he  had  struck.  She  felt  at 
that  moment  how  profoundly  she  loved  him. 

Meriem  gazing  at  her  in  blank  sui-prise,  read  at  once  the  secret 
the  Englishwoman  had  never  yet  spoken.  "  Oh,  Iris,"  the 
mountain-bred  girl  exclaimeil,  flinging  herself  on  her  uncon- 
scious rival's  neck,  and  bursting  in  her  turn  into  a  Hood  of  hot 
iears,  •♦  I  didn't  know  it ;  I  didn't  suspect  it.  If  I  had,  I  would 
never  have  spoken  to  you  so.  I  thought  he  admired  you  very 
much  indeed— who  could  help  admiring  you?  But  I  didn't 
think — I  didn't  think — I  didn't  think  you  loved  him  I  '* 

*'  Hush,"  Iris  cried,  looking  round  her  in  alarm.  *'  1  never 
said  so,  Meriem.  I  never,  never,  never  said  so.  Even  to  myself, 
I  mver  once  said  so." 

'*  Ilds  he  told  you  he  loves  you  ?  "  Meriem  cried,  in  suspense. 

"  No ;  he  has  never  told  me,"  Iris  answered,  through  her  tears. 


^w 


'W 


/ 


174 


THE   TENTS   OF    8HKM. 


"  But — you  know  how  it  is ;  he's  let  me  feel,  1  suppose — you 
understand  how — not  by  what  he  said,  or  even  looked  or  did,  but 
by  what  he  didn't  say,  or  look,  or  do,  Meriem." 

The  Kabyle  girl  rose,  and  gazed  down  upon  the  graceful 
and  delicate  English  lady  very  compassionately.  Her  own  soul 
was  all  seething  within  her. 

••  Iris,"  she  said,  slowly,  with  <^  determination,  "  you  have 
nothing   to   cry   for.     Don't   br(\  mr  heart  as  he's  broken 

mine.  lie  never  cared  in  the  least  lor  me.  It  was  all  empt\ . 
I  know  it  now.  I  see  it  at  last.  He  was  only  amusing  him- 
self I  " 

"  Then  he  had  no  right  to  break  your  heart,  dear,"  the  Eng- 
lishwoman answered,  clinging  hard  to  her  hand.  •'  lie  had  no 
right  to  flirt  with  you.  He  had  no  right  to  kiss  you.  I  can  see 
how  deep  the  wound  has  gone.  He  must  marry  you,  Meri'^m. 
You're  rich,  and  he  must  marry  you." 

In  her  passion  of  self-abnegation,  she  would  give  up  all.  Sidi 
AH,  and  the  property,  and  Vernon  Blake,  were  Meriem's. 

"  I  don't  want  the  money,"  Meriem  answered  low,  ber  eyes 
dry,  and  her  bosom  panting ;  "  but  I  did  want — I  did  want 
Vernon." 

•'  You  shall  have  him,"  Iris  repeated.  "  He  must  marry  you. 
I'll  make  him." 

Meriem  flung  herself  at  her  cousin's  feet  once  more,  and  raising 
the  hem  of  her  dress  to  her  lips,  as  she  had  done  on  the  very 
first  morning  they  had  met,  she  cried  out  earnestly.  "  Oh,  Iris, 
you  must  take  him.  When  I  look  at  you,  and  think  that  such  a 
girl  as  you  are  is  willing  to  marry  him,  I  wonder  1  was  bold  enough 
ever  to  dream  he  could  look  for  a  moment  at  a  poor  creature  like 
me,  Ins — Iris,  I  see  it  all  now  as  clear  as  day.  1  tried  for 
a  while  to  persuade  myself  he  might,  perhaps,  really  love  me. 
But  I  know  the  trutli  now  ;  and  the  truth  has  crushed  me.  He 
never,  never,  never  *        I  at  all,  in  his  heart,  for  me." 

•♦  Then  why  did  he  luss  you  ?  "  Iris  cried  out,  fiercely.  *•  Why 
did  he  hold  your  face  so  in  his  hands  ?  Why  did  he  make  love 
to  you,  and  talk  to  you  beautifully?  If  he  didn't  mean  it,  he 
was  using  you  cruelly,  and  he  sliall  never  marry  me,  tljon,.(li  he 
asked  me  on  his  knees,  after  acting  like  that.  I  shall  never  take 
him  away  from  any  other  woman,  who  has  so  much  a  better 
claim  on  him  tlian  ever  I  could  have." 

Meriem  lookeildown  at  her  own  bare  feet — that  pntent  symbol 
of  her  low  estate— in  shame  and  mortification.  "  1  was  mad," 
she  said,  glancing  from  her  own  coarse  haik  to  Iris's  exquisitely- 


7^ 


mm 


TUK    TENTS   OV    SHIM. 


171 


made  London  drpps,  ••  to  dream  that  Vernon  could  ever  think  ol 
me,  such  a  girl  as  I  ara  I  I've  broken  the  dream  for  ever  now. 
I  .^hall  crush  it  down  deep  in  my  heart,  Iris.  For  his  own  sake, 
even,  I'd  never  cl(jg  him  with  myself.  He  shall  marry  you  ;  he 
^hall  marry  you  ;  1   shall  make  him  marry  you." 

'•  It's  a  trial  of  strength  between  us,  then,"  Iris  cried,  in  her 
wassion  of  self-denial.  "  He  was  yours  first.  H«  ihall  be  yours 
for  ever." 

"He  was  never  mine,"  Meriem  answered,  sadlv.  "He  shall 
be  yours  for  ever  as  he  has  been,  I  know  now,  in  my  heart  of 
hearts,  from  the  very  first  moment  he  ever  saw  you." 

When  Uncle  Tom  emerged  from  the  Amine's  cottage,  two 
minutes  later,  he  saw  those  two  girls,  as  he  expressed  it  himself 
to  Mrs.  Knyvett  the  same  afternoon,  kissing  and  crying  under  a 
big  olive  tree,  and  declaring  they  loved  each  other  dearer  than 
ever,  and  behaving  for  all  the  world  before  the  eye  of  the  sun  like 
a  couple  of  babies. 

But  as  Uncle  Tom  and  Iris  rode  away  towards  St.  Cloud  once 
more,  in  varying  moods  (for  Uncle  Tom  was  elated  by  the  prick- 
ing of  this  bubble^  Hussein  and  Ahmed  leaned  up  against  a  wall 
and  puffing  slowly  at  their  native  cigarettes,  watched  the  hated 
mfidels  well  out  of  the  village. 

"  She's  pretty,  the  Christian  girl,'*  Ahmed  said,  with  a  smile 
tio  his  former  foe  and  rival,  Hussein,  still  toying  with  his  daggfer, 
"  and  very  like,  Meriem,  though  a  great  deal  more  beautiful. 
It's  a  pity  she  should  be  thrown  away  upon  a  mere  infidel." 

"  Ay,"  Hussein  answered,  with  a  generous  wave  of  the  hajld 

towards  the  bidder  he  had  displaced.     *'  Pretty  she  is,  and  fit  lor 

'    Moslem.     You  may  take  Meriem  yourself  if  you  like,  now, 

■led.     When  Allah  wills,  I  shall  have  the  Christian  woman." 

And  that  night,  alone  in  her  own  room,  Meriem,  sitting  by  the 
(iim  light  of  a  very  Roman-looking  earthenware  lamp,  filled  with 
olive  oil  and  a  floating  wick,  laid  her  hand  dubiously  on  the  charm 
round  her  neck,  and  then,  with  a  sudden  uncontrollable  impulse, 
unfastening  its  clasp  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  .  .  .  opened 
the  spring  lid,  and  looked  gravely  inside  it. 

^Vbat  she  saw  there  sli3  told  to  no  one ;  but  it  altered  the 
wliole  tenour  of  her  life  thenceforward. 


►  i.T-  •  r-TirT^^-     TW:^7V?-; 


176 


TRB    TBVTf   OF    SHKM. 


CHAPTER  XX VII. 


A    HAKD    WRKNCU. 

Td  Uricle  Tora'a  Lincoln's  Inn  intellingence,  the  sf  ttlemwnt  of 
the  point  that  Clarence  KnyveLt'a  so-caiied   nmrnago  wiiii   tJie 
late  lamented  Halima,  deceased,   was    no    nu'.rriage  at  all    by  . 
English  law,  had   closed  the   episode  of  their  visit   to   Algieria. 
So  far  as  he  was  concerned,  that  loyal   son  of  the  British    l>ar,  i 
true  lawyer  to  the  core,  was  prepared  forthwith  to  rt'.tiirn  to  the  \ 
classic  shades  j^  Old  Square,  leavnig  hare-le^'ged    Miss  Meriem 
and  her  Paynim   friends   to  their  own  devices  tiiciKtHiorth   and 
for  ever.     To  be  sure,  he  would  have  favounlbiy  chum  tained  any 
proposal  from  Iris  to  pension-off  her    Uncle   Clarence's  aliened 
daughter  with  a  modest  pensio'ii  of  the  most  unassuming  charac- 
ter.    That  small  moral  claim  he  fully  admitted.     A   man's  llesh 
and  blood   may  be  said,  in  a  certain  sort  of  nieiely  human  way, 
to  be  related  to  him.     But  that  the  girl    had   the   slightest  legal 
right  to  a  single  stiver  of  Sir  Arthur's  pro))erty — pooh,  pooh,  the  '■ 
notion  was  too  utterly  ridiculous  to  be   seriously  considered  by  a 
judicial  mind  for  half  a  mimite.     So  he  straightway  proposed  an 
immediate  return  to  his  native  land  before  iris  could  involve  her  ' 
self  any  further  in  this  foolish  intimacy  with  a  half-savuge,  left 
handed  Mohammedan  cousin. 

The  Third  Classic,  however,  to  Uncle  Tom's  supreme  disgusr 
refused  to  see  matters  in  the  same  simple  and  legally-polarisei 
light.  The  law,  she  said,  in  her  irreverent  fashion,  as  they 
conversed  with  animation  that  evening  at  the  Fort,  might  declare 
Uncle  Clarence  was  no  relation  at  all  to  his  own  daughter  till  ail 
was  blue.  She,  for  her  part,  defied  the  judges,  and  insisted  upon 
taking  a  more  natural  biological  view  of  the  question.  Coleridge, 
C.J.,  might  talk  himself  black  in  the  face  to  prove  the  contrary, 
and  she  wouldn't  believe  him.  She  maintained  with  obstinacy, 
in  spite  of  Blackstone,  the  perverse  opinion  that  father  and  child 
ara  more  or  less  remotely  connected  by  nature  with  one  another, 


^r 


^■^"^"^^^"^■•^"(^"■•^IIWH^ 


wmf^"' 


VUK    TKNTH   0»    lUlfiU. 


177 


wi^  tliat  all  tlio  law  and  all  tlif>  lawyors  in  England  could  nevor 
make  them  into  stmngors  in  bluoJ,  wliatuver  tliey  did  to  tln-in. 
Besides,  she  wanted  to  stop  and  see  more  of  Meriem.  She 
wanted  to  decide  in  her  own  mind  what  must  be  done  about  the 
mutter  of  the  inheritance. 

She  did  not  add  to  Uncle  Tom — perhaps  she  i^id  not  add  even 
to  hirsf'lf — that  she  wanted  also  to  consider  what  must  be  done 
about  Vernon  Dlake,  and  liow  she  was  to  tuar  away  her  own  poor 
little  heart  from  that  too  attractive  and  cohesive  painter. 

•  Miuhune  will  be  tired  of  us,"  Uncle  Tom  suj^gested,  as  a  last 
resort.  "  She  can  hardly  mean  to  take  us  all  in  as  lodgers  at 
nothini»  a  week  for  an  indefinite  peric  1." 

But  Madame,  who  just  caught  at  the  meaning  of  his  sentence 
ns  he  let  it  drop,  interposed  with  something  more  than  mere 
French  politeness  to  assure  her  dear  friends  she  would  be  de- 
lighted for  her  part  to  put  them  up  on  those  terms  for  ever  and 
ever.  And  so  in  truth  she  would,  no  doubt,  have  been  ;  for  the 
little  woman  loved  society  ;  and  in  this  dull  place,  jw«  i?ow/««-voim 
mormirur  /     Must  one  die  of  ennui  ? 

So  Uncle  Tom  in  the  end  retired,  worsted,  as  he  always  did 
from  an  encounter  with  Iris.  Those  persistent  Knyvetts,  with 
their  sentiments  and  emotions,  were  invariably  too  much  for  his 
common-sense  legalism.  They  could  twist  him  round  their 
Uttle  fingers,  as  ie  himself  could  tw  st  and  turn  an  unwill- 
ing witness.  His  very  side-issues  broke  down  hopelessly.  If 
Mrs.  Kjiyvett's  bronchitis,  as  Iris  averred,  really  made  it  impos- 
sible to  return  at  thia  time  of  year  from  a  warm  climate  to  the 
fogs  of  England,  why  couldn't  they,  at  least,  retire  upon  their 
own  snug  and  comfortable  villa  at  Algiers,  till  Amelia  was  well 
again  ? 

But  Iris  said  no,  with  her  pretty  little  foot  and  the  family 
emphasis,  and  Unole  Tom,  squashed  flat  under  the  weight  of  her 
crushing  negative,  was  forced  to  submit  to  that  imperative  gest- 
ure. Iris  would  tiever  leave  Grande  Kabylie,  i?he  declared,  till 
she'd  settled  the  two  subjects  that  now  lived  most  of  all  in  her 
mind — Meriem's  fortiUie,  and  Meriera's  love-affairs.  Meriem 
must  take  it  all — all — all  from  her.     Meriem  must  have  Uncle 

Arthur's  fortune,  and Meriem  must  marry  that 

handfonui  painter. 

In  tho-^e  two  firm  resolves,  Iris  sobbed  herself  wearily  to  sleep 
with  self-righteous  pride  that  night  in  her  own  bedroom  at  the 
Fort  at  St.  Cloud.  The  fortune,  indeed,  she  could  give  up  read- 
ily ;  but  not  the  painter — no,  not  the  painter. 


/>. 


L7t 


TMK    TSN'Xd    0¥   BtLEM 


Yet  hor  pretty  eyes  were  none  the  redder  for  lier  tears,  wl^eu 
she  salhed  forth  from  the  Fort  next  morning,  with  Madame  and 
the  faithful  ofBcer  of  the  Oenie,  and  turned  her  stops  in  va^^^ue 
expectation  towards  the  spot  where  Blake  was  still  so  ardently 
displaying  his  practical  devotion  to  landscape  backgrounds. 

The  painter  waa  there,  as  Madame  had  expected  ;  for  Madame, 
all  French  that  she  was  in  her  ideas  of  the  proprieties,  yet 
entered  with  zeit  into  this  romantic  little  episode  of  English 
love-making,  the  first  she  had  ever  seen  outside  the  yellow  covers 
of  a  translated  novel. 

"  I  find  that  charming,"  she  said  in  an  undertone,  tc  lierfriend 
the  officer  ;  "  we  have  nothing  like  it,  pour  le  bon  mntif,  du  moins, 
on  our  side  of  the  Channel.  There  is  in  it  the  element  of  free 
choice,  of  romance,  of  individual  preference,  and  yet  it's  all  so 
innocent,  oh,  mon  Dieu,  de  Vinnocence  I  Tandis  que  chez  nous 
autres^"  and  she  broke  o£f,  sighing. 

For  she  herself  had  been  married  at  eighteen  to  an  eligible 
person  of  the  same  fortune,  by  mutual  arrangement  between  her 
own  family  and  M.  I'Administraieur's. 

Her  poor  little  faded  ragis  of  romance  had  all  come  afterwards  ; 
and  innocence  was  not  precisely  the  exact  attribute  that  delighted 
the  soul  of  the  officer  of  the  Genie. 

They  sat  down  and  criticised  Blake's  picture  for  awhile  ;  then 
Madame  and  her  slave  wandered  off  discursively  into  gossip  of 
the  Fort  and  the  surrounding  colony.  Had  monsieu'-  seen  the 
new  Commandant's  wife,  at  the  next  post  ?  What  was  her  pro- 
bable age,  allowing  for  paint?  And  was  she  really  so  very 
pretty  ? 

**  Pretty  I  yes,  jg  voua  Vaccorda,  pretty.  But  that  was  all.  A 
most  sad  affair.  She  hadn't  the  sou.  Her  husband  had  married 
her  par  purs  depravation ;  je  vous  assure^  madame,  par  pius  depra- 
vation." 

Madame  laughed  and  raised  her  pencilled  eyebrows.  That 
was  wrong,  she  said  ;  extremely  wrong  ;  and  aisuch  a  crisis.  A 
French  official  should  be  married  in  these  days,  married,  of 
course,  because  it  was  necessary  he  should  be  doubly  rich  ;  he 
must  sustain  the  dignity  of  France  among  strangers  ;  but  to 
marry  sana  U  sou,  that,  for  example,  in  Madame'a  opinion,  was 
sheer  wickedness. 

Vernon  Blake  lifted  his  eyes  timidly  from  his  canvas  as  Bk« 
spoke,  and  caught  Iris's.  He  couldn't  forbear  a  meaning  srailft. 
Th«  whole  point  of  view  was  so  thoroughly  un- English.  Iris 
drojppe^  her  own  modest  eyelidi  in  retiirn.  The.  luute  little 
pantomimo  was  not  thrown  awav  nn  Madmnp'fl  Itiien  f^ianc*. 


} 


Il    I'l  » J) 


tkUL    TKNItt    0^    8U1lM. 


17b 


; 


"  »ra<  passe  par  la,'*  she  thought  to  herself,  gooJhuraouredly  ; 
t'or  she,  too,  had  been  in  Arcadia.  And,  besides,  she  was  not 
averse,  in  her  present  humour,  to  a  quiet  tetea-teU  herself,  with 
iTie  ofTicer  of  the  Genie. 

'♦  Come  on,  mun  ami,"  she  cried  of  a  sudden  to  her  companion, 
in  a  very  low  tone,  seizing  his  arm  spasmodically.  "  These  two 
have  affairs  of  their  own  to  settle.  Let  us  not  derange  them. 
r^et  us  admire  the  landscape."  And  they  admired  the  landscape 
on  their  own  account,  a  hundred  yards  off,  round  tlie  corner  of  a 
rock,  with  that  other  element  of  individual  preference  thrown  in, 
which,  though  not  so  guileless,  is  more  peculiarly  charming  to 
the  French  idiosyncrasy. 

"  What  a  funny  way  of  looking  at  it,"  Iris  said,  with  a  smile, 
as  thoy  found  themselves  alone,  with  her  heart  beating  hard ; 
"  so  very  different  from  our  English  ideas,  you  know  I  With  us, 
of  course,  it  seems  quite  natural  a  man  should  marry  a  penniless 
girl,  and  work  hard  for  her,  and  try  to  make  her  happy.  We 
think  it  wrong  to  marry  for  money.  But  they  both  seemed  to 
think,  on  the  contrary,  ii  was  almost  wicked  for  a  man  to  marry 
a  girl  who  had  nothing." 

Vernon  Blake's  bieath  came  and  went  m  gasps.  "  Yes,"  he 
said  slowly,  pretending  to  fiddle  with  his  brush  at  a  painted  leaf 
in  the  foreground  as  he  spoke.  ••  I  think,  myself,  [should  much 
prefer  the  girl  I  wished  to  marry  should  have  nothing  of  her  own. 
I  should  like  to  spend  my  life,  as  you  say,  in  working  hard  for 
her,  and  if  ever  I  attained  to  wealth  and  fame  and  honour  and 
dignity,  to  lay  everything  I'd  earned  as  an  offering  at  her  feet,  if 

only  she'd  accept   it I  think  it's  mor^  manly  and  more 

natural  so.  The  man  should  labour  and  sli.ve  for  the  woman. 
....  But  suppose.  Miss  Knyvctt,  a  man  were  by  chance  to 
light  some  day  upon  a  woman  whom  he  could  love,  whom  he 
could  admire,  whom  he  could  adore,  whom  he  could  die  for — a 
woman  towards  whom  he  could  look  up  with  profound  reverence 
— a  woman  whom  he  felt  at  once  immeasurably  his  superior  and 
yet,  in  other  ways,  his  helpmeet  and  his  counterpart — a  woman 
to  whom  he  could  give,  as  Shelley  says,  the  worship  the  soul 
lifts  above,  and  the  heavens  reject  not — suppose  a  man  were  to 
meet  such  a  woman  as  that,  wliosn  on  all  other  grounds  he  would 
wish,  if  he  dared,  to  make  his  wife,  and,  as  fate  would  have  it, 
he  happened  to  be  poor,  and  she  happened  to  be  rich,"  he  looked 

at  her  appealingly,  "  do  you  think do  you  think  .... 

in  such  a  case  ....  it  would  be  quite  wrong  of  him,  taking 
into  QQiQ3idgra.tian  how  mwsli    they   might  happen  to  haro  ^n 


!l 


180 


fn    TBMTt   OV    SBXll. 


common  (as  you  yoursfllf  guff,'?Rsted  the  other  day) " — and  lie 
broke  off  suldenly.  Irifl's  face  was  orimsou  now.  She  looked 
down,  and  answurod  nothing.  He  lon;;ed  in  his  heart  to  stoop 
forward  and  kiss  hor. 

But  Iris  full  a  suddon  «torui  corlvulse  her  hosotn.  As  the 
painter  sjwlve,  his  woi'Jh  thnlUMj  her.  She  knew  lie  loved  her — 
she  knew  slie  lovod  hiii).  l>uL  lu^  was  Mcrivjin's  lirst.  IShe  must 
give  liiiu  up,  aj^'aiiiHt  lior  \Vill,  to  Mttnein. 

Blalit'  pausi'd  for  a  minute,  and  watched  her  silently.  Then 
lie  spoke  once  more.  "  Don't  you  think,  too,"  he  said,  longing 
lor  some  little  word  of  enf!oiif;i,i:('irHMit  before  he  dared  to  go  on, 
"that,  in  such  a  case,  a  man  woniij  oUen  shrink  S(!nsitivHly  from 
asking  the  giH  ho  luvod  (or  tuar  his  niotivus  mi^ht  be  cruelly 
misconstrued."  '    - 

With  a  terrible  flTort,  Iris  did  what  she  thought  right.  "I 
don't  think  my  cousin  MtiruMii  would  misconstrue  your  motives," 
she  answered,  slowly,  [irclMndin^'  to  misunderstand  bis  plain 
meanmg.  •'  Of  courso  she'll  bt'  neb  whon  she  comes  in  to  Uncle 
Arthur's  money,  as  I  moan  slie  shall  do  ;  but  she  was  not  rich 

when when   you   first   paid  attentions  to  her ;  and  she 

could  hardly  think,  under  such  ciiH'umstunces,  you  meant  to  ask 
her  for  an v thing  except  her  own  sake.  " 

Th6  painter  drew  back  witli  a  shock  of  surprise.  "  Mist 
Knyvett,"  he  cried,  in  a  pained  voice,  "  you're  phiying  with  me! 
You're  teasing  mo  I  You're  intontionally  sliulting  you're  eyes  o 
what  1  mean.  At  silch  a  moment,  it  isn't  right  or  kind  of  ;ou. 
You  can't  seriously  think  I'm  in  h)ve  with  Menem."  Aihl  he 
seized  her  hand  in  his  own,  and  held  it  violently. 

Iris  struggled  h;ird  to  release  it,  but  in  vain.  "  Let  go  iii.- 
liarid,"  she  said  at  last  in  an  angry,  autliontntive  tone  ;  h  .  i 
Bliike,  surprised,  let  it  go  itistnntly,  in  answer  to  tluit  imperious 
Knyv(:tl  voice.  Iler  li[)S  trembled,  but  she  nerved  hers;elf  up  aiui 
said  her  say,  striUglil  out,  fr)r  all  that.  "  I  dont  know  whs 
not,"  she  answered  >v)i,siu!ly.  '•  Meriem's  beautiful  ;  Merieni's 
rich;  Meriem'o  un  heiress  in  her  own  right;  Meriem's  my  Undo 
Cliireiiee's  daughler  ;  I  don't  know  why  any  man  shouldn't  be 
proud  and  pleased  to  mai-ry  Mermm." 

•'  And  after  I've  seen  i/nii.  Iris?" 

He  said  it  boldly,  lie  said  it  softly.  Fie  culled  her  by  her 
name.  He  was  not  afraid  to  do  it.  In  spite  of  herself,  in  spite 
of  her  conacionce,  in  spite  of  her  stern  sense  of  duty  to  Meriem, 
Ijria  felt  a  «uddt^u  turill  of  uuwuntttd  joj  cguistt  dow^i  Uer  ajprne  sa 


VBM   TSMTS   OV   IHXlf. 


181 


"I 


lie 


■he  beard  him  call  her  so.  It  was  iwe«t  to  have  won  the  heart 
of  that  beautiful  creator  of  beautiful  images,  come  what  might  of 
it.  Bweet  to  have  won  it,  if  only  for  a  day.  Though  she  raust^ 
give  him  up  to  Meriem — for  he  was  Meriem's  first — she  didn't 
attempt  to  conceal  from  herself  the  delicious  fact  that  she  loved 
to  know  she  had  gained  his  love.  As  he  stood  there,  appealing, 
with  his  two  hands  clasped,  their  fingers  intertwining  close  in 
one  another,  he  looked  as  grand  and  as  fair  as  a  young  Greek  god. 
She  was  glad  in  her  soul  to  know  he  loved  her. 

But  she  crushed  it  down  with  uncon(]uerable  force.  She  was 
a  Knyvett  born ;  no  weakness  for  her,  even  where  a  woman's 
heart  was  concerned.  She  looked  back  at  him  coldly,  though 
those  quivering  lips  br]i>  d  her  words.     "  Menem  told  me  all  last 


pang. 


*•  You  made  love  to  her 


night,"  she  answered  v  ith  a 

long  before  ever  I  came  here.  You  n^ade  love  to  her  when  she 
was  still  poor  and  a  nobody.  You  must  marry  her  now  she's 
A  rich  lady,  and  Uncle  Arthur's  heiress  ;  for  it's  I,  after  all,  who 
am  poor  and  a  nobody,  you  see,  nowadays." 

Venion  Blake's  heart  gave  a  great  bound,  "  I'm  glad  of  that, 
Iris,"  he  cried,  still  more  boldly,  with  a  burst  of  delight,  "  for 
then  you'll  know  it's  you  I  ask  and  want ;  like  Lord  Bonald  and 
Lady  Clare,  you,  and  you  only," 

It  was  hard  on  poor  Iris,  undeniably  hard.  She  saw  he  meant 
it ;  she  saw  how  the  blood  came  quick  into  his  cheek  as  he  said 
those  words.  It  was  for  herself  he  loved  her,  not  for  lands  or 
money.  Had  she  followed  the  promptings  of  her  own  soft  heart, 
she  would  have  flung  herself  at  once,  m  sweet  abandonment,  ^pon 
the  painter's  bosom.  But  a  sterner  tyrant  ruled  her  actions.  The 
Knyvett  conscience,  aglow  with  indignation,  rose  in  full  revolt. 
"Mr  Blake,"  she  cried,  starting  back,  and  assuming  a  virtuous 
dngei'  she  only  felt  with  half  her  nature,  ♦•  how  dare  you  call  me 
hy  my  Christian  name,  when  you've  made  love  for  months  to 
Meriem  ?  How  dare  you  be  so  untrue,  and  unkind,  and  unfaith- 
ful to  her  ?  Don't  try  to  conceal  the  facts  from  me,  please,  or  to 
gloss  them  over,  or  to  make  light  of  them  easily.  You  won't 
succeed,  for  Meriem  told  me  all  last  niglit,  and  I  see  what  it 
m«ans  ;  you  must  marry  Meriem  1  " 

**  Never,"  Blake  answei^d,  hot  in  the  face,  but  disregarding 
her  orders.     "  I'll  marry  ynn,  or  nobody,  Iris." 

He  needed  no  wizard  nc.v  to  tell  him  she  loved  hira.  Hf 
eould  see  so  much  plainly  for  himself.  Only  this  wretched 
phantom  of  an  imagined  Meriem  stood  between  them*     And,  foi 


!n1 '; 


IS- 


TUB.    TENT8    OV    SHEM. 


I 


lieriem'B  sake,  she  would  wreck  all — wreck  their  joint  livea  that 
might  be  made  so  beautiful  1 

Iris  gazed  back  at  him  like  a  marble  Nemesis. 

•'  Meriem  told  me,"  she  answered,  with  stern  self-restraint, 
"  you've  made  love  to  her  in  the  way  they  make  love  in  Eng- 
lish novels.  She  told  me  you'd  taken  her  face  in  your  hands 
and  kissed  her  often.  She  told  me  everything  that  passed 
between  you.  Do  you  think  after  that,  in  your  own  conscience, 
you've  any  right  to  marry  any  one  else  but  Meriem  ?  " 

Blake  looked  down  at  the  ground  with  awkward  shyness. 

*•  It  was  the  merest  flirtation,"  he  answered,  on  the  defensive. 
•*  I  never  meant  anything  but  just " 

"  To  amuse  yourself !  Yes,  yes,  that's  it,  I  know.  You  meant 
to  amuse  yourself.     It  was  only  that  to  you,  perhaps,  I  dare  say  ; 

but  to  Meriem Mr.  Blake,  how  dare  you  tell  me  so  ?  Don't 

you  lee  she  loves  you  I     You'll  break  the  girl's  heart  unless  you 
marry  her." 

•'  And  your  heart,"  cried  Blake,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  auda- 
city. Love  gives  the  most  modest  man  a  wonderful  boldness. 
••  How  about  your  heart — your  own  heart.  Iris  ?" 

The  English  girl  winced.     It  was  a  home  thrust. 

"  My  heart  must  break,  too,  if  need  be,"  she  answered  aU^ 
taken  aback,  with  a  flush  of  passion. 

"  Then  you  d9  love  me  1 "  Blake  cried,  springing  forward 
eagerly. 

Iris  bent  her  head,  and  blushed  crimson.  She  thought  she 
was  only  abandoning  the  merest  outwork  when  she  was  really 
giving  up  the  entire  citadel. 

**I  do  love  you,"  she  answered,  slowly.  ♦'  But  I  can  never 
marry  you.  If  I  can  give  it  up,  so  can  you.  I  will  never  rest 
till  you  marry  Meriem." 

The  painter's  heart  leapt  up  once  more  with  a  wild  delight. 

"  If  you  admit  so  much,"  he  said,  *•  I  needn't  despair.  When 
a  woman  says  she  loves  you,  all  has  been  said.  I  kisned  her,  I 
grant  you.  I've  kissed  before.  If  a  kiss  is  to  count  for  a  con- 
tract of  marriage — why,  then "     And  he   stepped  forward 

boldly,  and  with  an  unexpected  assault,  printed  his  hps  on  Iris's 
forehead. 

The  startled  girl  sprang  back  as  if  she  had  been  stung.  That 
Idss  thrilled  her  through  in  every  nerve.  But  she  knew  it  was 
wrong ;  her  conscience  chilled  her. 

**  Mr.  Blake  she  cried,  one  flush  of  scarlet*  '*  astm  dare  agaift 


TBNTS    OF    SHKM. 


inn 


to  touch  me  as  long  as  you  live  1  You  had  no  right  to  take  such 
an  advantage  of  my  trust.  I'll  never  lors^ive  you  till  you've 
married  Meriem.  And  now,  if  you  pleaiQ,  I'll  go  back  to 
Madame." 

But  in  her  owji  room  at  the  Fort  that  night  she  lay  on  her 
bed  for  hours,  in  her  evening  dress,  with  the  candle  burning,  and 
ttobbdd  her  throat  &or«  with  love  and  miser/. 


: 


184 


tBi   TENtS   Of   SHilt. 


CHAPTER  XXVIiL     - 

COUNTERPLOT. 

In  London,  meanwhile,  in  the  privacy  of  his  chambers,  Harold 
Knyvett,  Esquire,  of  the  Board  of  Trade,  and  of  the  Cheyne  Uow 
Club,  Piccadilly,  had  been  sile^itly  working  out  his  own  plans  to 
confound  that  muddhng  old  fool,  Whitmarsh,  and  to  secure  the 
hand  of  his  cousin  Iris.  For,  oddly  enough,  it  was  not  so  nnicli 
now  revenge  as  desire  tliat  goaded  on  Harold  Knyvett's  soul  to  a 
policy  of  reprisals.  He  had  suddenly  awakened  tha>  evening  at 
West  Kensnigton  to  the  previously  obscure  fact  that  he  was  in 
love  with  Iris — positively  in  love  with  her — and  tlie  knowledge 
of  that  fact,  brought  home  to  him  in  a  flash  at  the  moment  when 
Iris  had  rejected  his  suit  with  scorn  and  contumely,  had  ini|)elled 
him  forward,  ever  since,  in  a  characteristic  sclieme  for  wimiing 
back,  at  one  stroke,  both  )iis  cousin  and  the  property.  So  long 
as  he  believed,  in  his  own  cynical  words,  that  "  at  the  pnssent 
day  any  man  may  have  any  girl  he  likes  for  the  asking,"  it  had 
never  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  in  love  with  Iris.  The  fruit 
was  ripe  to  his  hand  when  he  chose  to  pick  it.  Imagining,  in 
his  own  heart,  he  might  "  marry  the  girl  whenever  he  liked," 
money  or  no  money,  "  by  approaching  her  in  a  proper  spirit  from 
the  side  of  the  emotions,"  he  cared  but  little  more  for  tliat  par- 
ticular girl  than  for  any  other  of  the  five  hundred  well-favounid 
young  women,  who,  as  he  still  firmly  and  fondly  held,  would 
jump  down  his  throat  any  day  if  he  opened  his  mouth  al 
them.  But  as  soon  as  he  had  learned,  by  actual  experiment, 
that  this  one  particular  maiden  did  not  ardently  desire  the 
honour  of  his  alliance,  it  suddenly  struck  him,  with  a  burst  ol 
surprise,  that  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  wanted  Iris,  and  no  girl 
but  Iris  could  possibly  satisfy  him. 

It  was  not  a  very  noble  form  of  love,  to  be  sure.  Harold 
Knyvett's  very  affections  were  all  purely  selfish.  What  he 
thought  to  himself  every  day  more  and  more,  now  that  Iris  was 
gone  over  sea  to  Algeria,  was  simply  this  — that  nobody  could 
ever  please  him  like  Iris.  With  Iris,  he  could  be  hajipy,  com- 
fortable, contented,  at  his  ease;  a  pleasant  companion  secured 


CHS    TBWTS   OF    SU£M. 


ibu 


hirp  for  8T«r ;  no  idle  gossip  or  silly  chatter  to  distarb  bis  tran- 
quil enjoyment  of  liis  after-dinner  claret ;  a  sensible  girl,  with  a 
head  oq  her  shoulders,  ever  ready  to  soothe  him  with  her  finer 
fancies,  to  touch  hira  with  her  ligliter  thought.  A  mm  of  cul- 
ture should  have  a  woman  of  culture  as  a  help  meet  for  him. 
Harold  Knyvett  recognised  in  his  lofty  soul  that  the  Third 
Classic  was  his  pre-established  harmony,  the  very  wonjan  in- 
tended by  Heaven  to  keep  such  a  man  as  himself  company. 

And  the  longer  he  stopped  away  from  Iris,  the  more  profoundly 
each  day  did  he  feel  himself  in  love  with  her.  How  he  could 
ever  have  been  such  a  fool  as  not  to  recognise  the  fact  earlier,  he 
couldn't  imagine;  and  that  he,  Harold  Knyvett,  of  all  men  in 
the  world,  should  have  been  such  a  fool  was  almost  ^s  remt^rk- 
able  a  phenomenon  in  its  way  as  even  that  he  should  admit  him- 
self for  once  to  have  been  so.  A  fine  girl,  if  ever  there  was  one  ; 
and  with  character,  intellect,  conversation,  wit — everything  he 
prized  to  back  up  the  mere  external  charms  of  a  pretty  face  and 
ii  well-turned  figure.  Her  hand  was  the  daintiest  httle  hand  in 
London ;  and  the  tiny  feet  that  played  under  the  skirts  of  her 
evening  dress — well,  Harold  Knyvett  was  fam  to  confess  in 
jrefiective  moments  that  those  tiny  feet  were  simply  ravishing. 

The  more  he  thought  of  them,  then,  the  mere  abundantly  clear 
did  it  become  to  his  lot^icnl  intelligence  that  since  he  loved  them 
he  must  bring  their  owner  down  on  her  knees  in  tlie  dust  before 
him.  She  had  sent  him  off.  to  be  sure,  that  evniing  at  West 
Kensington,  with  a  most  undi<;nified  and  unquahlied  dismissal. 
But  what  of  tliat  ?  Girls  never  know  their  own  minds  for  ten 
niinutes  together.  Amantinm  ir<x  amoria  inWgyatio  est  (as  a  man 
of  taste,  Harold  Knyvett  could  even  make  metre  out  of  a  T  atin 
senarim)  and  when  she  found  he  had  come  in  after  all  to  Sir 
Arthur's  property,  she  would  descend  gracefully,  no  doubt,  from 
her  high  horse,  and,  with  some  preliminary  pretence  at  coyness, 
con<;eiit  to  marr}  the  heir  of  Sidi  Aia.  What's  worth  winning's 
worth  playing  for.  And  Harold  Knyvett,  being  a  born  gambler, 
was  quite  prepared  to  play  a  high  stake  for  his  cousin  Ins. 

£ir  Arthur  had  never  altered  hia  wiU.  Harold  Knyvett  deter- 
mined to  alter  it  for  him. 

it  was  a  big  piece  of  work,  to  be  sure — a  risky  job — and  it 
required  caution.  One  must  put  judj^nient  into  this  sort  of  thing. 
of  coarse.  No  precpitancy.  Go  to  work  slowly,  judiriouslv. 
carefully,  warily.  That  old  fool  Wh  nnarsh.  ass  as  he  was.  havl 
acquired  an  undoubted  technical  Knack  in  detectinir  an'ex-^nsin;.' 
•»w#U,  colourable  imitations  of  dead  men's  8ii;:nai;uie:aii  lor.  ip 


■ 


«Vi'^4'W  "■■"'™' 


iimimyf''^  {W^^^ 


186 


THV    TENTS   07   laEll. 


polite  society,  we  no>ver  call  them  to  ourselves  even  ••  forgeries.'* 
But  what  Harold  Knyvett  meant  to  do  was  to  find  somewhere  a 
will  of  Sir  Arthur's,  leaving  everything  to  himself  personally, 
and  duly  attested  by  two  good  witnesses,  both  of  whom  must  be 
conveniently  dead,  both  of  whom  must  possess  at  least  a  fair 
show  of  probability,  and  both  of  whose  signatures  must  survive 
the  ordeal  of  that  old  fool  Whitmarsh's  professional  scrutiny. 

Now  nobody  has  any  idea  how  difficult  a  matter  it  is  to  forge 
a  really  plausible  will  {erperto  crede)  until  ho  comes  to  try  it  him- 
self experimentally.  First  of  all — hut  that  is  the  smallest  problem 
of  any — you  have  to  imitate  the  testator's  signature  by  gradual 
steps  till  you  can  write  it  off- hand  with  freedom  and  ease  like 
your  own  name  ;  for  the  smallest  appearance  of  stiffness  or  for- 
mality, the  faintest  indication  of  doubt  or  deliberation,  the 
remotest  hint  of  unfamiharity  or  weakness,  bficomes  before  the 
prying  gaze  of  the  expert  in  handwriting  absolutely  fatal.  The 
Chabots  and  the  Pallisers  will  force  your  hand.  Every  letter 
must  be  turned  out  boldly  at  a  dash  ;  every  stroke  and  line  must 
be  natural,  and  seemingly  quite  unpremeditated.  Men  write 
their  signatures  so  often,  indeed,  that  the  finj^ers  acquire  an 
instinctive  twist ;  it's  far  harder  to  copy  succossfully  those  few 
flowing  curves  of  a  native  twirl  tlian  to  imitate  a  page  of  ordinary 
manuscript. 

When  Harold  Knyvett  had  managpd  by  aspiduous  practice, 
however  (on  scraps  of  paper,  all  religiously  burnt  as  soon  as 
written),  to  turn  out  an  imitation  of  8ir  Arthur's  hand  that  even 
Netherclift  himself  would  have  heaitatod  to  declare  an  undoubted 
forgery,  the  hardest  part  of  his  task  still  remained  to  him.  He 
liai  letters  enough  of  Sir  Arthur's  from  which  to  work,  in  the 
first  instance,  and  he  studied  them  all  m  ca)'f'fully  and  minutely 
that  he  could  at  last  produce  an  almost  peri'yct  facsimile  of  the 
cramped  aud  crabbed  twists  of  the  old  '^'iMeral'M  ^'outy  si<;Tiature. 
But  the  will  itself,  with  its  mnnifold  pilfaJls,  was  a  far  harder 
and  more  ticklish  matter.  In  tha  firnt  place,  you  liave  to  draw 
up  something,  in  a  legal  hand  and  with  Ic.'al  phraseology,  which 
will  bear  the  suspicious  gaze  of  eminent  Q.C.'s,  and  outlive  the 
sniffing  and  flaw-hunting  criticisiri  of  9|icc.tac!"(l  juniors.  Then 
there  are  the  outsiders,  tjj  )se  two  iVjai'^onie  ()iit:-?i(lers,  who,  as  the 
attestat'.on  clause  charoiinui y  nhrasen  iL.  v\  ,lli  more  legal  precision 
than  literary  beauty,  •'  beiii  >  ,'  •■  -  ntal  li"  >.iinetirne  in  testator's 
presence,  at  his  request,  an.i  in  t  u'  p;-  ^-nrt'  of  each  other,  have 
lierHto  subscribed  tljeir  na'ii.  -  ^.  w  u^-*  -s."  1'  i,v  nnu-h  need 
bM  (rouble  th«j  (j^ave  poor  il    .v>.J  I    U').\   uc*i-.;    lu^y  drove    b'U) 


rHK    TSNT8   or   SHXM. 


187 


to  the  verge  of  despair,  in  the  vain  attempt  to  make  qnite  sure 
of  their  historical  existence,  their  date  of  death,  and  their  freedom 
from  the  disastrous  taint  of  an  alibi. 

For  Sir  Arthur's  will,  from  the  very  nature  of  the  case,  must 
necessarily  have  been  executed  either  at  Algiers  or  Aix.  At  no 
data  subsequent  to  the  execution  of  the  first  will  in  Iris's  favour 
had  Sir  Arthur  ever  returned  to  England.  Now,  that  awkward 
circumstance  made  the  witness  question  a  peculiarly  delicate  one 
for  the  amateur  to  handle.  Harold's  problem,  neatly  put, 
amounted,  in  fact,  to  just  this  :  how  to  find  two  likely  persons  at 
Aix  or  Algiers,  but  now  defunct,  both  well  known  of  late  years 
to  Sir  Arthur,  and  both  of  whom  he  could  be  quite  sure  might 
possibly  have  been  at  a  certain  place  on  a  certain  date,  without 
fear  of  any  meddlesome  lawyer's  proving  that  one  of  them  on 
that  day  was  actually  elsswhere.  For  on  ona  point  Harold  had 
made  up  his  mind ;  he  would  run  no  risk ;  il>  he  forged  a  will 
nobody  on  earth  would  ever  be  able  to  say  it  was  a  probable 
forgery.  They  might  think  so,  of  course,  as  much  as  they  liked  ; 
thought  is  free  in  a  free  country — so  long  as  you  don't  express  it 
in  speaking  or  writing.  But  to  say  so — no;  Harold  Knyvett 
would  so  manage  the  thing  that  whatever  suspicions  old  Whit- 
marsh  might  harbour  they  should  be  suspicions  only,  incapable 
of  proof  before  judge  and  jury.  As  a  man  of  culture  he  objected 
to  the  crude  contrasts  of  prison  dress  ;  he  would  not  waste  his 
valuable  time  in  doing  fourteen  years  of  enforced  seclusion 
among  the  uninteresting  scenery  of  Portland  or  of  Prince's 
Town. 

•*  Labor  omnia  vincit,"  said  the  Knyvett  motto  that  surrounded 
the  crest  of  Harold's  neat  and  dainty  hand-made  note-paper ; 
and  assiduous  care  did,  indeed,  at  last  conquer  all  difficulties  in 
the  discovery  of  two  defunct  possible  witnesses,  whose  presence 
together  in  Sir  Arthur's  rooms  at  Aix,  on  a  given  day  in  the 
"ummer  before  last,  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  not  plainly  dis- 
provable.  With  infinite  pains  Harold  hunted  them  up.  He  had 
first  to  take  into  his  t  vrvice,  indeed,  in  the  guise  of  a  kinsman 
s^rateful  for  attention  oestowed,  that  double-faced  gcoundrel.  Sir 
.\rtimr's  valet,  Gilbert  Montgomery,  whose  deep-dyed  treachery 
'le  abhorred  and  despised  with  all  the  strength  of  his  own  manly 
ind  simple  nature.  He  had  then,  by  his  dexterous  side-hinta 
111(1  careful  leading  questions,  to  find  out  from  this  dangerous 
tool  all  a')nut  Sir  Arthur's  habits  and  Sir  Arthur's  crouies,  with- 
•lit  t;vo  ol.A'iously  exciting  Mont,c:oraerT'i  iuspicions.  He  had 
.J  lix  avon  two  persons  both  dead,  both  at  Aix  at  the  eam*  ILom 


rua  TSNTi  or  irsm. 


and  both  likelj  to  be  asked  to  act  as  witnesses.  He  had  to  hunt 
up  among  Sir  Arthur's  papers  (which  Montporaery  sold  him) 
letters  from  both  these  persons,  to  iniitatia  their  hand-writing, 
and  to  make  sure  of  a  day  on  which  both  migiit  reasonably  have 
called  upon  Sir  Arthur  wiiliout  danger  of  anybody  urging  the 
awkward  fact  that  on  that  particular  aft(Tnoon  one  or  both  were 
ill  in  bed,  or  absent  at  r.encva,  or  engaged  in  some  other  incom- 
patible pursuit,  plnce,  or  ocoupatioti.  In  the  end,  however, 
Flarold's  ceaseless  paiiis  provi.led  against  every  possible  contin« 

T>p^'.  and  triumphed  ovpr  every  prospective  assault  of  the  leader 
of  tha  Probate  and  Divoi  ce  Division.  The  will,  in  fact,  was  a 
perio  I  gem  of  forgery,  calculated  to  deceive  the  very  elect ;  so 
deva  a  fraud  had  never  been  perpetrated  sinre  Tliomas  Kynnei*' 
sley  >Vhitmarsh  first  ate  his  dinners  at  Lincuh)'8  inn  in  the 
cai'lo  v'  days  of  the^ewly- fledged  half-century. 

,yo  Harold  Knyrott  said  to  hirnself  with  no  small  sat  s''action 
as  he  surveyed  the  document  one  autumn  eveiiihg  in  the  safe 
solitude  of  his  own  bed-room.  No  detail  had  been  nt^-lertod  that 
loads  on  tn  success.  The  very  paper  was  Frcncli,  from  Sir 
Arth  ir's  dosk  at  Aix-les- Bains  ;  tlie  iiik  was  sarid-p()W(lered  with 
F'ren  li  precision  ;  the  tape  to  tie  it  was  b6uo:ht  in  Paris;  the 
watcrmuik  was  true  to  year  and  month  ;  eveHtliihg  ^as  en  regie 
with  consii'.n'ndte  foretlioaght.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Harcld 
Kynvett  \i.u\  forgotten  nothing.  He  Was  determinod  riot  to  be 
caught  out  in  a  scholar's  mate;  and  he  surveyed  his  own  work, 
when  comjilete,  with  parental  pride,  as  a  specimen  of  whilt  a 
man  of  intelligence  can  do  when  he  seriously  devotes  his  Uiiiid 
to  forgery.  - 

And  now,  but  one  thing  was  left — to  discbvfer  it. 

Discovering  a  forged  will  is  in  itself  an  art.  Foolish  precipi- 
tancy in  this  res]iect  may  spoil  everything.  You  may  make  your 
forgery  yourself  as  safe  as  houses,  and  yet,  if  yoU  produce  it 
without  a  history,  so  to  speak,  or  let  it  drdp  from  a  clear  sky, 
unaccounted  for,  you  lay  yourself  open  to  the  most  absurd  sus- 
picions by  not  being  able  to  show  cause  for  its  due  preservation. 
Harold  Knyvett  had  thought  of  that  difficulty  too,  but  as  yet  he 
hardly  saw  his  way  well  oitt  of  it.  Oil  one  point  only  he  was 
quite  clear  ;  he  must  find  the  will  in  Sir  Arthur's  rooms  at  Aix 
or  at  Must.iplia.  How  to  account  for  his  presence  at  either  place 
at  this  critical  jilncture  was  the  soJe  remaining  problem  before 
hiih.  And  to  the  plausible  solution  of  that  one  problem  Harold 
now  addressed  himself. 

H.8  aiusl  get  to  Algeria,  &s  it  Were,  hf  accidenl. 


Wlfff^m^mm 


wm 


•j"'>.tj".'t^--'-"^T  ; 


fMH  T«MTs  oy  fiaKU. 


u% 


CHAPTER  XXI3L 


LX    KARCHANT    BUEAU8    SM.ENaS.     .  /  . 

On  the  very  same  morning  when  Iris  and  Vfrnnn  Blake  were 
having  their  little  love  p:iss;i|;e  together  by  the  hillside  at  St. 
Cloud,  Meriera  had  come  oul  to  the  tent  at  Beni  Merzoug  to  ask 
assistance  from  her  friend  Le*iMarchant.  A  new-born  desire  had 
arisen  in  her  soul,  the  desire  to  read  Englisl^handwriting. 

*•  I  want  you  to  show  me,  Kustace,"  she  said,  in  her  8im})le 
straightforward  way,  '•  how  they  make  the  letters  in  JEngland 
wbeo  they  write  to  one  another." 

*•  You  want  to  learn  to  wnte  English,  in  fact,"  Eustace  an- 
swered, smiling. 

»'  Partly  that,"  the  girl  replied,  with  half  a  blush.  '  But 
partly  more,  I  want  to  learn  how  to  read  a  letter." 

•'  In  case  Vernon  should  ever  send  you  one,  I  suppose,"  Le 
Marchant  said,  with  a  subdued  sadness  in  his  eye  and  hps. 

"Nor'Meriem  answered,  very  decisively.  "Vernon  shall 
never,  never  write  to  me.  Vernon  shall  marry  my  cousin  Iris. 
I've  made  up  my  mind  firmly  to  that.  I  wanted  to  learn  for 
another  reason." 

She  spoke  decidedly,  with  concentrated  determination,  though 
it  was  clear  the  words  cost  her  much  ;  and  Le  Marchant,  looking 
keenly  through  and  tiirough  her,  read  her  too  far  to  harrow  liei 
just  then  with  any  further  questioning.  It  would  cost  her  a 
wrench  to  give  up  the  painter.  But  the  wrench  must  come,  Le 
Marchant  knew  well.  He  saw  tlmt  l^lake  was  in  love  with  Iris, 
and  he  was  sure  he  would  never  dream  of  marrying  Meriera. 

•  He  brought  out  some  paper  and  pen  and  ink,  and  set  Meriem 
a  copy  of  a,  6,  c,  in  the  usual  formal  writing-master  style. 
Meriem  sat  down  to  it,  by  a  fiat  rock,  with  ciiaiMcteristic  deter- 
mination. She  had  a  reason  for  learning  English  manuscript- 
liand  now  ;  and,  till  she  had  learnt  it,  no  spare  mouient  should 
be  spent  or  wasted  on  any  other  subject.  ■ 

For  the  next  few  days,  8,ccordingly,  Meriem  toiled  hard  at  her 
new  writing,  but  especially  at  deciphering  the  stranga  characters 


TTy^ 


lyo 


THE   T£NTB   OF   SHXll. 


■ 


sht  herself  had  written.  What  she  wanted  most  to  do,  howeyer. 
was  to  read  what  was  written  in  other  people's  hands  ;  and  to 
this  end  she  made  Le  Marchaut  write  down  many  simple  words 
Tor  her,  and  then  read  them  herself  at  si^ht  as  well  as  she  was 
ible.  By  the  end  of  a  week,  her  pro^jress  was  remarkable  ; 
previous  knowledge  of  the  cursive  Arabic  had  stood  her  in  good 
stead  ;  aiul  she  found  to  her  surprise  she  could  spell  cut  a  page 
of  English  manuscript  with  decent  certainty  though  by  slow 
stages.  And  when  once  she  had  reached  that  point,  she  spent 
many  h  /urs  shut  up  by  herself  in  her  own  bedroom  in  the 
Amine's  cottage,  poring  hard  over  something  held  close  to  her 
face,  of  which  she  told  naught  to  any  one  anywhere. 

*•  Eustace,"  she  said,  suddenly,  a  morning  or  two  later, 
ippearing  with  a  flushed  face  at  the  tent  door,  "  you  can  speak 
Krench.  I  want  to  know  if  you'll  come  with  me  some  time  over 
to  St.  Cloud,  and  find  out  something  from  the  people  down  there 
for  me." 

Le  Marcliant  rose  with  a  pleased  face.  Of  late  Meriem  had 
been  very  friendly  with  him.  She  wasn't  the  least  little  bit  in 
the  world  in  love  with  him,  of  course ;  that  he  knew  well.  He 
made  himself  no  vain  illusions  on  that  foolish  score.  Meriera 
loved  Vernon  Blake,  and  her  love  for  Vernon  Blake  was  far  too 
profound  to  allow  of  room  in  her  heart  for  any  possible  rival. 
Still,  she  was  friendly,  uncommonly  friendly.  She  had  learned 
to  trust  him  and  rely  on  him  as  a  friend,  with  a  frank  trustful- 
uess  wliich  no  English  girl  in  our  conventional  world  could  easi- 
ly have  imitated.  For  that  measure  of  intimacy,  Le  Marchant 
was  grateiul ;  he  liked  to  see  that  Meriem  trusted  him  ;  he  was 
sorry  her  love  was  so  hopeless  and  so  desperate. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  find  out  ?"  he  asked,  coming  out  to 
the  door,  and  taking  her  hand  in  his,  with  friendly  sincerity. 

••  Can  I  trust  you  ?  "  Meriem  asked,  lookmg  him  hard  m  the 
face. 

'*  You  can  trust  me,  Meriem  ;  implicitly  ;  for  anytliing."      ■   - 

♦'  So  I  think,"  she  answered,  with  her  keen  glance  fixed  upon  , 
his  truthful  eyes.     "  You  are  always  kind  to  me.     1  believe  you. 
I'll  trust  you.     Well  then,  I  want  to  know    ....    whether 
they  have  any  register  books  kept  at  St.  Cloud  of  people's  marri- 
ages earlier  than  the  Christian  year  1870." 

Le  Marchant  started.  "  Why  so  ? "  he  asked,  in  no  little 
surprise. 

•♦  Eustace,"  the  girl  said,  very  seriously,  laying  her  hand  upon 
hii  arm,  with  a  sudden  pressure,  •'  if  I  tell  you  this,  you  promise 
->T»  vour  honour  never  to  breathe  a  word  of  it  to  anybodv.  ' 


.-^ 


*'^*« 


iirrrr-Tftiiii«wr« 


THS    TENTS    OK    IIHBU. 


un 


**  I  will  never  breathe  a  word  of  it  to  anybody,  Meriem,  if  you 

ask  me  not." 

"Then  this  is  why.  I  know  you  won't  betray  me.  I  think  the 
books  must  all  have  been  destroyed  in  the  great  insurrection  of 
1251 — what  the  Christians  call  1870.  I  hope  they  were.  I'm 
sure  they  must  have  been.  For  the  KabyUes  attacked  and 
burned  down  the  Fort,  and  killed  almost  every  livin;,'  soul  in  the 
place,  and  even  Madame  I'Administratice  herself  only  escaped  by 
walking  across  the  snow  in  her  Vv^ht  dressing-gown." 

"  And  why  do  you  wish  the  books  to  have  been  burnt  ?  "  Le 
Marcliant  asked  once  more»  with  some  dim  anticipation  of 
Meriem 's  probable  meaning. 

*•  Because,"  Meriem  answered,  clutching  his  arm  hard,  "  my 
father  and  mother  were  married  at  St.  Cloud, — secretly  married 
in  the  Christian  way,  before  a  priest,  and  also  at  the  ^Mairie — 
early  in  the  beginning  of  1870." 

••  How  do  you  know  that  ?  "  Le  Marchant  asked,  astonished. 

Meriem  shook  her  head  with  a  decisive  negation.  "  Don't 
ask  me  how  I  know  it,"  she  cried,  her  tuigers  playing  nervously 
meanwhile  with  her  amulet.  ♦♦  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you.  No- 
body shall  know.  But,  if  the  books  at  .St.  Cloud  are  really  de- 
stroyed, nobody  on  earth  will  ever  be  ablo  to  prove  it." 

•' And  you  don't  want  it  proved  ?  '  Le  Marchant  exclaimed, 
with  rising  admiration. 

"  1  don't  want  it  proved,"  the  girl  answered,  eagerly.  •*  Why 
should  I,  indeed?  It  could  onlv  distress  me.  1  don't  want  to 
take  all  this  money  from  Iris.  Iris  shall  keep  it,  for  Vernon 
loves  her.  She  shall  marry  Vernon,  and  break  my  heart.  But 
Vernon  will  have  it,  for  lie  loves  h\.s." 

•*  And  you  ?  "  Ea.stixtc  asked,  lojiuiig  back  at  her  with  pity. 

*•  And  me?  "  1  11  stop  and  marry  liussuiu  or  Ahmed,  or  any 
other  man  my  uncle  mi;,  sell  me  to." 

Le  Marchant  lookeii  once  more  at  her  with  infinite  tenderness. 
But  he  said  notliing.  it  must  not  be — it  could  not  be;  some- 
thing must  be  done  somehow  to  prevent  it.  But  the  time  to 
speak  out  was  not  come.  'They  started  in  silence,  with  huavy 
hearts,  to  walk  over  to  St.  Cloud,  alone — toguthiir. 

On  the  way  they  spoke  to  each  other  but  little.  Fach  was 
fuD  of  hie  own  though i,s.  It  was  only  after  they  lii^,;!  reached 
St.  Cloud,  and  Eustace  had  satisfied  himself,  hy  I'u.l  inquiries, 
that  the  r^»giSter  of  the  Etat  Civil,  previous  to  1H70,  had  indeed 
been  destroyed  in  the  great,  rebellion,  that  they  began  to  talk  al 
all  freely.     Meriem's  mind  was  reheved  by  the  discovery. 


' 


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192 


THB  TSMTf  or  fifiXM. 


«•  Tbat'i  well/*  ih*  fftid,  with  a  sigh ;  "  that's  well,  Eaitao*. 
Now  Iris  and  Vernon  can  keep  their  money." 

Eustace  made  sure  in  his  own  mind,  she  had  learnt  the  real 
or  supposed  fact  from  some  Eabyle  woman  in  the  village — some 
confidante,  perhaps,  of  her  dead  mother ;  and  he  agreed  with 
her  that  even  if  true  it  would  now  be  impossible  to  prove  it. 
Sq  he  turned  back  once  more,  half-relieved  like  herself,  nince  she 
would  have  it  so,  to  find  that  her  vague  claim  to  the  Knyvett 
estates  grew  even  mora  shadowy.  If  Meriem  was  satisfied,  what 
right  on  earth  had  he  to  wish  it  otherwise  ? 

Half  way  home,  they  sat  down  on  a  projecting  ledge  of  rock 
that  overhung  the  valley ;  a  ledge  under  the  shade  of  a  gnarled  old 
olive  tree  ;  and  while  they  rested,  Eustace  murmured  to  himself, 
as  if  by  accident  almost,  Meriera's  own  words,  ••  I  will  stop  and 
marry  Hussein  or  Ahmed,  or  any  other  man  my  uncle  may  sel. 
me  to!" 

Meriem  gazed  up  in  bis  face  with  a  half  defiant  air.  Those 
fearless  nostrils  of  hers  quivered  as  she  spoke ;  but  slie  said  with 
no  faltering  note  in  her  voice,  '•  Yea,  I  mea,n  it,  Eustace  ;  let  Iris 
take  Vernon,  and  I'll  marry  Hussein." 

Le  Marchant's  face  was  very  earnest.  He  took  the  girl's  white 
hand  in  his  own  unresisted.  Meriem  liked  him,  and  let  him  take 
it.  •'  Meriem,"  he  said,  with  his  eyes  fixed  full  on  hers,  "  listen 
to  me  a  moment.  I  want  to  speak  to  you  seriously.  You  must 
never,  never  marry  a  Kabyle."   • 

'•  I  mu.«t,"  Meriem  answered,  "  if  my  uncle  sells  me  to  him." 

Le  Marchant  knew  his  hope  was  infinitesimal ;  but  for  Meriem 's 
sake  he  ventured  to  speak  out.  '•  Meriem,"  he  went  on  again, 
with  a  lingering  cadence  on  each  syllable  of  her  name,  "the  tane 
is  short,  and  I  want  to  save  you.  I  know  your  uncle  means  to 
marry  you  off  shortly.  I  know  you  love  Vernon  and  not  me.  I 
know  Vernon  will  never  marry  you.  But  I  can't  endure  to  think 
you  should  pass  your  life — you,  whom  I've  learnt  to  know  and 
love  and  admire — a  slave  to  one  of  your  countrymen  in  tiie 
villagehere.  To  me,  this  summer  has  been  a  very  happy  one.  I've 
watched  you  and  talked  with  you  till  I  know  you  and  feel  to- 
wards you  as  towards  an  English  lady.  I  know  how  deep  aiid 
profound  is  your  nature.  Menem,  you  must  never  marry  Hussein 
or  Ahmed.  I  don't  ask  you  to  love  me,  I  don't  expeci  you  at 
first  to  love  me  ;  but  for  your  own  salce  I  ask  you  at  least  to  wait 
and  marry  me — to  save  you  from  Ahmed  or  Husseia,  or  tbeiir 
liki ;  do,  Meriem,  marry  me." 


/ 


\^^^ 


Ttti   TENtS   Of  ittXit. 


i8d 


Meriem  gazed  back  at  him  with  her  friiiik,  (biltl^^s  ^Azi.  **  I 
3an  never  marry  any  man  but  Vernoh,"  ih6  ani^iiriBr^d  quietly. 

"  But  you're  going  to  marry  Ahmed  or  HuBdeih  1 "  Le  Mer- 
chant cried  in  a  pleading  voice.  ♦'  Why  iibt  me  His  wfeU  as  eithisr 
of  them  ?  Surely,  Meriem,  you  like  me  more  than  you  like 
Hussein  I" 

«*  But  that's  quite  different,"  Meriem  answered,  slowly,  eii- 
deavouring  to  disentangle  her  own  mind  to  herself  to  her  o^ 
Ratisfaction.  "  I  could  marry  a  Kabyle,  because  thilt's  not 
carrying  at  all,  you  know,  in  the  way  people  thfiiri7  in  the  Eng- 
lish books — in  the  way  I  might  marry  you  or  Verhori.  That*i 
merely  being  Hussein  or  Ahmed's  slave ;  pickihg  tip  sticks  aiid 
making  cous-cous  for  them.  I've  expected  that  all  my  life  long. 
It's  nothing  new  to  me.  I  ought  to  be  prepared  for  it.  .... 
But  to  marry  you,  Eustace,  woliild  be  quite  different.  I  coiild 
never  marry  any  Englishman  at  all,  except  Vernon." 

•'  Meriem,"  Le  Marohant  urged  once  more,  holding:  her  hand 
tight  in  his  eager  grip,  ti,nd  pleading  earnisstly.  "  1  don't  ask 
you  to  miirry  me  for  my  own  sake  in  the  least,  tliough  I  l6ve  you 
dearly,  and  have  always  loved  you.  I  ask  you  to  rtiarry  me  to 
get  you  away  from  this  place  altogether :  I  want  you  tb  put  your- 
self into  freer  and  more  natural  and  congenial  surrbundiiigs;  to 
save  your  own  life  from  Hussein  or  Ahmed.  Oh,  Meriein,  don't 
throw  your  life  away  I  For  your  own  sake,  pause  a  moment  and 
think.  I  want  to  take  you,  and  save  you  from  dirudgisry.  Marry 
me  first ;  you  may  learn  to  love  me  by  degrees  afterward." 

Meriem  stroked  the  fingers  that  held  h6r  own  with  hfer  left 
hand,  tenderly.  ••  Eustace,"  she  said,  in  a  veiry  soft  voice,  hbt 
untinged  with  a  certain  profound  regret,  "  I  like  yoii  dearly.  I 
know  you  and  trust  you.  I'm  very  fond  of  you.  Except  Vernoh, 
there's  nobody  else  I  like  as  I  like  you.  In  a  way,  I  love  you. 
I  love  you  almost  as  I  loved  Yusuf.  You've  always  been  kind  to 
nie.  You've  been  more  than  thoughtful,  t'rom  the  very  first 
(lay  when  you  came  to  the  Beni-M6rzoug,  I've  always  seen  and 
noticed  how  kind  you  were.  Kinder  than  Vernon.  I've  seefa 
that,  too,  all  along,  of  course.  You  thought  of  m#,  while  he 
thought  of  himself  and  his  own  pleasure.  You  never  spoke  one 
word  of  love  ;  you  loved  me  silently,  and  tried  to  help  me.  I 
know  all  that ;  I  recognise  all  that ;  dont  think  me  ungrateful ; 
I  like  you  dearly  ;  I  love  you  as  a  sister  might  love  a  brother. 
But  see  how  strangely  our  hearts  are  built  1  I  know  all  that ; 
vet  1  love  Vernon,  and  I  could  marry  Vernon.     I  could  never 

,ii}   you  ;  and  partly  just  because  I  like  you  so  dearly.     I 


i^'" 


194 


THE   TENTS    OF   SHEM. 


could  marry  Vernon  because  I  love  him  ;  1  could  marry  Huss«  In 
because  I  hate  him  ;  but  you,  never  !  because  I  like  you,  and  iovt 
you  as  a  brother  I  "     And  with  a  simple,  graceful,  womanly  im 
pulse  she  raised  his  trembling  hand  to  her  lips,  and  kissed  ii 
affectionately.     "  Dear  Eustace,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him 
still  with  brimming  eyes,  "  1  wish   I  could  say  yrs,  if  it  won' 
give  you  pleasure.     But  I  mmt  say  no.     I'm  very,  very,  mm 
sorry." 

Eustace  clasped  her  hand  yet  harder  in  liis  own. 

"  Meriem,"  he  cried,  with  the  calm  but  deep  emotion  of  midd 
life,  "  if  you  won't  marry  me,  you  shan't  get  rid  of  me.     I'll  sto 
here  still  to  watch  over  you  and  protect  you.     I  know  what  soc: 
of  life  you'll  have  to  lead.     But  they  shall  never  harm  you.     Tr 
at  least  to  remain  single  for  me.     It's  intolerable  to  think  suci 
a  woman  as  you  should  be  Hussein's  slave.     A  woman  like  you 
so  grand  and  sweet  I     And,  perhaps,  in  time  you  may  forge: 
Vernon  and  learn  to  love  me." 

•'  I've  learnt  to  love  you  long  ago,  Eustace,"  Meriem  answere( 
with  a  smile  through  her  tearful  eyes  ;  "  but  I  shall  never,  nevt- 
forget  Vernon.     Iris  may  take  him  :  I  want  her  to  take  him  ;   ' 
love  Iris  and  I  love  Vernon,  and  I  want  them  both  to  be  happ 
together ;  but  as  long  as  I  live  I  shall  never  forget  him.     I  sli:' 
never  forget  your  goodness,  either ;  but  my  heart — my  heart 
my  heart  is  Vernon's." 

And  she  held  it  tight  to  keep  it  from  bursting. 

Le  Marchant  rose  and  kissed  her  forehead  chivalrously. 

••  My  child,"  he  said,  leaning  over  her  with  infinite  regretfi: 
tenderness,   '*  I'm  no  boy  who  mistakes  his  first  calf-love  for  < 
grand  passion.     I've  seen  many  women  ;  I've  loved  some;  but  1 
never  loved  any  woman  before  as  I  love  you,  Meriem.     I  loveii 
you  from  the  first;  what  you've  said  to-day  has  made  me  lovs 
you  better  than  ever.     I  admire  you  becnuse  you  have  a  strong 
nature.     I  know  I  have  a  strong  nature,  too.     Strong  natures  g( 
forth   naturally  to  one  another.     Some  day,  Meriem,  I  believ( 
)'0U  will  love  me.     But,  love  me  or  not,  I  will  never  forsake  you 
For  your  own  sake,  I'll  stand  by  you,  and  protect  you,  and  watcl 
over  you.     You  are  to  me  a  new  interest  in  life.     I  can  never  li 
you  fall  into  Hussein's  clutches.     Come  on,  my  child;  it'sgro\ 
ing  late  now,  and  thank  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  for  u 
you  have  uuid  to-day  in  uiy  favour." 


E-.i?' 


-tTTTTTSTTsgj'r 


'r^ 


WMM  TUIXI  M  tHUb 


m 


OHAPTER  XXX. 


■TMPT0M8. 


I»  was  a  ^Jstinot  surprise  to  Harold  Knyrett  to  Moeire,  a  fevf 
days  later,  %  note  from  hia  Aani  Amelia,  couched  in  corapara* 
Cively  affectionate  terms,  and  dated  from  **  The  Fort,  St.  Cloud, 
Algeria." 

Communications  with  the  rival  branch  of  the  Knyvett  family 
had  of  course  been  interrupted  for  Harold  of  lata  ;  he  had  heard 
nothing  from  that  high-stepping  girl,  Iris,  herself,  since  the 
memorable  evening  when  he  had  proposed,  to  his  shame,  and 
been  promptly  rejected.  But  he  was  glad  to  find  Aunt  Amelia, 
at  least — good,  easy  soul — didn't  share  her  daughter's  alienated 
feelings.  It  was  something  to  have  the  maternal  authority  more 
or  less  on  his  side  ;  and,  thinking  thus,  II  iruld  accepted  the  note 
as  a  rapproachwffnt,  an  indirect  reopening  of  relations  between 
the  two  high  contracting  parties.  If  Aunt  Amelia  held  out  the 
right  hand  of  friendship  to-day,  it  might  fairly  be  expected  that 
that  recalcitrant  daughter  of  hers,  for  all  her  fads  and  fancies, 
would  follow  suit  moas  amicably  to-morrow. 

"  My  Dear  HxROLDr"  Mrs.  Knyvett  WTote,  without  the  faintest 
show  of  resentment,  or  even,  for  that  matter,  of  Christian  for- 
giveness either,  "  please  excuse  pencil.  Here  we  are,  up  in  a 
heathenish  place,  among  the  snowy  mountams  which  they  call 
Grande  Kabylie,  stopping  at  a  fort,  where  an  outbreak  of  the  na- 
tives it  seems,  may  beat  any  moment  expected,  and  indebted  foroui 
daily  (sour)  bread  to  the  hospitality  of  a  frivolous  and  ill-regulated 
young  Frenchwoman,  whose  uiannera,  I  fear,  are  hardly  a  good 
example  for  such  a  highspirityd  girl  aa  our  dear  Ins.  We  left 
Algiers  for  this  dreadful  place  almust  immediately  after  out 
arrival  m  the  country  ;  and  hera  Ins  has  kept  as  ever  sm^se, 
much  against  my  will,  away  from  her  comfortable  horaa  at  Suii 
A.ia  (which  is  really  a  didioious  house),  huntmg  up  so.na  mvthical 
olaim  to  her  estate,  set  forward  on  behalf  of  a  poor  barefooted  pa 


m 


twit  79»?l  t?  IIIV3>* 


gan  girl  of  the  namo  oi  M eriem,  or  something  of  tliat  lort.  I 
won't  write  to  you  about  this,  however,  at  any  length,  as  I  under- 
stand dear  Tom  doesn't  want  the  matter  discussed  in  London.  My 
real  object  in  troubhngyou  to-day,  is  merely  to  ask  you  if  you  will 
be  kind  enough  to  do  me  a  little  favour.  To  add  to  my  mis- 
fortune, as  ill-luck  will  have  it,  I've  managed  in  the  last  fpw  days 
to  get  a  bad  attack  of  my  old  enemy,  bronchitis,  which  has  come 
on  severely  since  the  snpw  began  to  fall  thick  on  the  upper 
mountains.  I  haven't  had  such  »  bad  turn  of  it  for  years  and 
yoars,  and  I'm  writing  this  lyith  a  very  blunt  pencil  (as  you  see) 
in  bed,  for  the  houses  here  are  most  ill -constructed,  and  it's  quite 
iiapoQsillls,  with  all  one'^  pains,  to  keep  the  draught  out  through 
iheie  bomble  windows.  What  I  want  tp  know,  therefore,  is, 
whetheK  ypu'H  be  so  gqp^i  like  a  4ear  boy,  an  to  call  at  ear 
house  and  ask  Martha  for  my  bronchitis  kettle,  and  the  inhaler, 
»Rd  ipray^mftphine,  and  all  the  prescriptions  and  medical  things 
In  the  lower  right-hand  drawer  of  the  spare  bedroom  dressing 
t9<ble.  Please  put  them  up  in  a  neat  parcel,  and  take  them  all 
(addreised  to  me)  to  Dr.  Yate-Westbury's  (l  forget  where  he 
lives  in  6t«  Johp's  Wood,  but  you  can  look  nis  place  up  in  the 
•  Post  Office  Direptory').  He's  coming  over  to  Algiers  for  the 
seasqn  nett  we^k.  as  Iris  learns  from  the  Sidi  Aia  people  ;  and  if 
you  «.8k  him,  I've  no  doubt  in  the  world  he'll  be  glad  to  bring 
the  things  pv^r  for  m$,  as  he  own^  the  next  house  to  onrs  on  the 
bill  tt  Mustaphfl"  Thanking  you,  by  anticipation,  for  your  kind- 
nwM  in  this  matter,  and  with  best  love,  in  which  Iris  (who's  out 
»t  present)  would  no  doubt  join,  beheve  me,  my  dear  Harold. 

•*  Evey  your  affectionate  Aunt, 

"  Amklt4  Mary  Knyvett." 

The  perusal  of  this  fpnd  and  foolish  letter,  as  he  loitered  over 
the  anchovy  toast  at  breakfast,  afforded  Harold  Enyvett  in  his 
own  soul  th«  keenest  enjoyment.  *'  The  Whitmarshes  are  all 
donkeys,"  hi  thought  internally,  with  the  self-congratulatory 
smile  of  the  very  superior  person,  **  but  Aunt  Amelia's  really  the 
biggest  donkey  of  the  whole  lot  of  them.  The  idea,  now,  of  her 
blurting  out  like  that  the  secret  of  what  it  is  that's  taken  them  all  _:, 
oyer  to  AlgeHa  I  And  to  me,  too,  of  all  people  in  the  wor)d  t 
How  mad  that  old  ass  her  brother'd  be  if  only  he  knew  whai  ^ 
precious  mess  his  affectionate  sister's  gone  and  made  of  it^ 
'Doesn't  want  the  matter  discussed  in  London,'  indeed  !  Thai 
transparent  idiot  1  I  suspected  as  much  when  I  heard  he'd  gone 
MVOM  viib  Iiif  W  %wij  tht  war  into  Afrio*.    80  they've  fomi 


aaHHMi 


•I  Jf".W 


/      •"  "I?! 


ffMl  tBMtt  •#  IhKII. 


1ft 


•at  iomt  yotng  woman  wbo  claims  to  \>%  Olareno*  Sji7T«tt*i  heir 
and  rspresentative  t  Well,  well,  we  may  try  thai  tack  in  theen^, 
if  all  other  plans  fail,  and  my  own  little  will  miscarries  anyhow. 
But  it  won't  miscarry ;  it's  as  safe  as  houses — and  a  great  deal 
safer,  too,  in  these  earthquaky  ages.  For  houses  nowaday  «re 
no  better  than  Three  per  Cents.  I'd  no  idea  my  dear  relations 
were  away  Irom  Algiers  t  What  a  stroke  of  luck  1  The  house 
vacant  I  LoriL'  may  the  draughts  blow  up  Aunt  Amelia's 
chronic  bronoliitis  I  It's  a  splenid  chance  for  me  to  get  io 
/aidi  Aia  while  they're  all  away  from  it,  and  discover  my  will 
iHtowed  neaily  away  in  the  back  drawer  of  that  convenient 
liavenport  I  " 

For  lliirold  Knyvett,  who  left  nothing  to  chance,  had  arranged 
beforehand  tlie  matter  of  the  davenport. 

He  finished  his  coifeo  and  lighted  a  cigarette;  then  he  poised 
the  letter  contumplatively  in  one  hand  before  him.  t)t.  Yate- 
Westbury  I  Ha  i  ha  I  An  idea  I  In  luck  again  I  Aunt 
Amelia  had  unconsciously  suggested,  by  a  single  phrase,  the 
misuing  link  in  Im  grand  scheme.  One  point  alone  was  doubtful, 
i«(tid  Aunt  Amulia  had  cleared  it  up.  He  would  brmg  that  proud 
Iris  to  her  knees  at  last  1  He  would  make  her  marry  him  or 
give  up  her  property. 

He  stroked  his  chin,  and  smiled  to  himself.  Dr.  Yate- West- 
bury  I  The  great  authority  upon  nervous  disease  I  He  saw  his 
way  clear  now  to  a  voyage  to  Algiers.  The  man  was  an  enthusiast 
for  the  Algerian  climate.  It  was  notorious  that,  having  land  to 
sell  there,  he  regarded  the  place  as  an  absolute  panacea  for  all 
the  ills  that  llutih  was  heir  to,  and  especially  for  all  forms  of 
nervous  disorder.  A  nervous  disorder,  then,  was  the  one  thing 
aeedful  to  secure  a  good  plea  for  visiting  Sidi  Aia. 

Hjiiold  Knyvett,  to  he  sure,  was  in  boisterous  health.  He  had 
^tarto(]  in  llfu  with  those  two  famous  allies  in  the  struggle  for 
^xisteuco,  «'  a  l)fi(l  heart  and  a  good  digestion,"  and  he  had  never 
done  anything,'  to  impair  either  of  them.  Leave  from  the  Board 
of  Trade,  thtrDfore,  would  be  difficult  to  get  on  any  other  pre- 
text ;  but  a  tutrvons  disorder  1  there,  the  strongest- built  and 
neeraingly  hoalthioHt  man  may  succumb  any  day  to  on  unex- 
pected malady,  i'^irod  with  the  idea,  he  rang  the  bell  and  ordered 
a  hansom  at  once.  "  To  the  London  Library,"  he  cried  aloud  to 
\he  cabby  "  12,  St.  James's  Square;  and  look  sharp,  for  I'm  in 
t\  preciuus  hurry." 

There  wan  time  before  office-hours  to  lookup  the  question.  He 
reached  the  library,  rushed  upstairs,  and  took  down  from  ike 


TBS   TKNTI   Of    8BSM. 


dielf  '*  Tate-Westbnry  on  Diseases  of  the  N^rroas  Sjitem."  H« 
woald  hoous  the  doctor  out  of  his  own  treatiseg. 

In  ten  minutes,  be  had  choson,  digested,  and  assimilated  hii 
disease ;  he  knew  the  symptoms  of  his  peculiar  malady  as  pat  as 
Yate-Westbury  himself  could  have  told  him  them.  A  twitching 
of  the  fingers — yes,  yes,  just  so  ;  a  nervous  trembling  about  th« 
eomers  of  the  mouth ;  loss  of  memory,  decrease  of  appetite,  fre- 
quent sleeplessness,  accompanied  by  a  growing  tendency  to  dwell 
minutely  upon  long-past  events  in  the  night  watches ;  inca- 
pacity to  write  down  the  exact  word  or  phrase  he  wanted; 
forgetfulness  of  names  even  with  the  nearest  and  dearest  friends 
or  acquaintances.  He  had  swallowed  the  whole  diagnosis  entire 
before  he  rushed  off  in  hot  haste  to  the  office  ;  he  waa  the  victim 
of  a  slow  and  insidious  decay ;  he  needed  rest,  change  of  air, . 
relaxation,  variety. 

At  the  door  of  his  room  at  the  Board  of  Trade,  he  met  his  chief, 
with  a  vacuous  smile  on  his  carefuUy  composed  countenance. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr. er — ,"  he  said,  and  paused  irresolute. 

Then,  with  a  sudden  air  of  frankness  he  drew  his  hand  across 
his  forehead,  and  added  qaickly,  •'  My  dear  sir,  you'll  hardly 
credit  it,  but  I've  actually  managed  to  forget  your  name.  I  can't 
think  what's  coming  over  ray  poor  head  lately." 

"I've  noticed  that  before,"  his  chief  answered,  with  a  good- 
natured  laugh.  "  For  a  long  time  past,  in  fact,  I've  observed, 
Knjrvett,  that  your  memory  hasn't  been  by  any  means  so  brisk 
and  keen  as  it  used  to  be.  You've  seemed  preoccupied  and 
absorbed  and  mooney,  and  distracted.  If  I  were  you,  do  you 
know,  my  dear  fellow,  I'd  not  lose  a  day ;  I'd  consult  Yate- 
Westbury." 

Harold  had  hard  work  to  repress  a  smile.  Could  anything  on 
earth  have  happened  more  opportunely  ?  It  came  in  the  very 
nick  of  time,  as  if  he  himself  had  carefully  angled  for  it.  No 
doubt,  indeed,  he  had  been  preoccupied  of  late.  When  a  man's 
er  gaged  m  all  his  leisure  moments  with — ahem — drawing  up 
a  will  for  a  deceased  person,  he  may  well  have  but  little 
attention  left  to  spare  for  the  dull  and  dry  details  of  exports  and 
imports ! 

"  You  think  so  ?  *'  he  murmured,  with  well  assumed  alarm. 
*'  I'm  sorry  for  that.  But  I've  felt  it  coming  on,  myself,  for  the 
last  two  months  or  so.  My  mind  seems  to  have  lost  its  freshness 
and  elasticity.  It  doesn't  hook  on  to  things  as  it  used  to  do. 
I'll  take  your  advice.  I'll  consult  Yate-Westbury  this  very 
tvening.*' 


I 


-wr 


XUM   T£NT8   OM   BHXM, 


lUU 


*'  Do,"  th«  chief  went  on,  with  kindly  cousiderateness.     **  The 

1  vice  '11  gain  by  it,  in  tlie  end,  no  doubt.     A  fortnight'!  holi- 

ly  '11  be  sure  to  set  you  right  again.     But  I've  noticed  all  along 

;  ou  were  getting  awfully  tagged.     Since  the  middle  of  the  sum- 

uier,  indeed,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  you've  never  been  half  the  sort 

of  man  you  used  to  be." 

Harold  bowed  his  head  in  affected  regret. 

'•  It's  extremely  kind  of  you  to  suggest  it,"  he  said,  with 
^aateful  warmth.  •♦  I  do  want  a  change.  I  won't  deny  it. 
['hose  differential  duties  have  run  me  too  hard.  But  IT.  see 
Vate-Westbury  at  once,  Mr. — er — quite  so — ah,  Hamilton, 
hank  you ;  and  if  he  gives  me  a  certificate  to  that  effect, 
['11  run  down  South  for  a  week  or  two's  rest  and  change 
mmediately." 

"  Sensible  fellow,  Knyvett,"  the  chief  reflected  as  he  turned  to 
lis  desk,  "  Some  fellows  are  too  deuced  proud  to  take  your 
idvice,  and  resist  the  sUghtest  attempt  to  give  them  a  hint  for 
he  good  of  their  health.  But  Knyvett's  always  so  sound  and 
easonable.  I'm  glad  I  persuaded  him  to  go  to  Yate-West- 
•ury." 

As  soon  as  the  day's  work  was  fairly  over,  therefore,  Harold, 
hus  fortified  by  extraneous  advice,  went  round  without  delay  to 
;he  famous  specialist's,  lie  introchioed  himself  as  iiis  uncle's 
lephew,  and  detailed  his  symptoms  (straight  out  of  the  book) 
^vith  the  greatest  minuteness.  The  famous  specialist  listened 
>vith  deep  attention,  not  unmixed  with  paternal  pride  and 
pleasure.  A  plainer  case  he  had  never  come  across.  Typical, 
typical !  And  well  might  it  be  so,  for  Harold's  symptoms  were 
.he  picked  result  of  years  of  experience  and  generalisation,  fired 
)ff  point-blank  in  one  long  list  at  the  innocent  head  of  their 
jbserver  uv  inventor. 

'•And  so  you  don't  sleep  at  nights,  eh  ?"  Dr.  Yate-Westbury 

-;aid,  gazing  through  and  through  him,  with  an  inquiring   air. 

'Well,  well,  that's  bad.     But  usual,  very.     And,  tell  me  now, 

»vhat  do  you  mostly  think  about  when  you're  lying  awake  in 

these  fits  of  sleeplessness  ?  " 

"  Why,"  Harold  answered,  playing  nervously  and  ostenta- 
tiously with  his  fingers  on  a  button  of  his  coat  while  he  endea- 
voured at  the  same  time  to  make  the  corners  of  his  mouth  twitch 
and  jerk  as  conspicuously  as  possible,  '•  nothing  much,  thank 
heaven.  I'm  not  troubled  that  way.  I  don't  think  of  anything 
of  the  slightest  importance.  Merely  minute  old  childish  remin- 
iscksncei,  ajid  all  that  sort  of  thing."  , 

■  i. 


too 


tH»  tiMTi  ny 


k' 


I  ^'' 


The  specialist  smiled  a  grim  smile  of  recofnition — ai,  to  be 
sure,  he  mighi,  for  the  symptom  confirmed  bis  own  diagnosis. 

'♦  And  wby  do  you  pull  about  your  button  like  that  ?  "  he  asked, 
darting  down  upon  him  with  sudden  emphasis. 

Harold  glanced  down,  and  prctjndcd  for  the  first  moment  to 
notice  the  niovemunt. 

"I — I  don't  know,  why,"  he  answered,  meekly.  "  I  wasn't 
aware  I  was  pulling  it  about  till  you  called  my  attention  to  it. 

Indeed,  Dr. — er — er ,"  and  he  forgot  the  name  with  the 

most  skilful  innocence,  "  I  don't  think  I  pull  things  about  so 
usually. " 

"  Do  you  haggle  over  names  much  ?  "  the  specialist  asked, 
with  a  knowing  look.  *-*  I  notice  you  forgot  what  mine  was  this 
moment." 

Harold  hugged  himself  imwardly  on  the  perfect  way  in  which 
he  was  diddling  his  man  with  such  a  transparent  fiction. 

'*  A  good  deal  of  late,"  he  answered,  his  fingers  rising  up  onoe 
more  to  the  button,  as  if  unconsciously.  "  But  it'll  soon  pass 
oyer,"  he  added  with  pretended  nervousness.  •*  It  won't  go  on 
long.  A  mere  passing  ailment.  I'll  be  all  right  again  in  a  week 
or  two,  I  fancy;" 

"  Look  here,  Mr.  Knyvett,"  the  doctor  said  seriously,  ••  I 
won't  conceal  from  you  the  painful  fact  that  your  case  is  a  dan- 
gerous one — a  distinctly  dangerous  one.  We  must  be  very 
careful.  We  must  face  these  facts.  You  know  what  this  sort  of 
thing  generally  leads  to  ?  "  He  lowered  his  voice  and  almost 
whispered  in  his  ear,  ••  Insanity,  my  dear  sir — simple  insanity." 

Harold  assumed  a  profoundly  horrified  air.  He  was  a  good 
actor,  and  had  the  muscles  of  his  face  well  under  control. 

♦•You  don't  mean  to  say  so !  "  he  cried,  in  apparent  alarm. 
"  Oh,  don't  say  that.  Dr. — er — er — Yate-Westbury." 

Dr.  Yate-Westbury  closed  his  lips  tiglitly. 

*'  There's  only  one  thing  for  you  to  do,"  he  said,  with  em- 
phatic severity.  "  You  must  take  a  holiday — a  complete  holiday. 
No  half  measures — a  thorough  change.  I  see  by  your  eyes 
you've  been  over  exciting  yourself  too  much  about  some  business 
or  other  lately.  You  have  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  been  pro- 
foundly absorbed  by  private  affairs.  A  batchelor,  you  say  ;  self- 
centred  I  self-centred  1  The  root  of  all  evil,  if  people  would  but 
see  it.  You  need  change  of  air,  distraction,  diversion,  amuse- 
ment. You  should  go  abroad ;  Nice  shall  we  say  ?  or  Mentone? 
or  Monte  Carlo  ?  "  He  paused  for  a  second,  and  stroked  his  chin. 
**  Or,  say,"  he  went  on,  as  if  struck  by  an  inspiration,  "  why  not 


THE    TKNT8   OP    HUEll. 


201 


to 


vlgiers  ?  It's  the  very  place  for  people  who  suffer  from  your  spec- 
lal  8}inptuius.  Air'u  .sedative,  soothing,  and  extremely  bland.  As 
it  happens,  in  fact,  I'm  going  there  myself  for  the  winter  on 
Monday.  You'd  better  come  with  me.  In  your  present  state  of 
health,  you  need  constant  medical  advice  and  attention.  I've  a 
villa  on  Mustapha,  just  next  uoor  to  your  uncle.  Sir  Arthur's. 
Miss  Knyvett's  there  now  already,  I  believe,  so  you'll  find  your- 
self at  once  in  the  bosom  of  your  family.  A  charming  young 
lady  ;  I  met  her  out  last  season.  We  needn't  say  anything  to 
her  or  others  about  our  fears  or  suspicions  for  the  future,  of 
course — "  here  Dr.  Yate-Westbury  nodded  and  smiled  with  an 
air  of  profound  professional  mystery.  •'  Mum's  the  word  there. 
I'll  give  you  a  certificate  of  some  non-committing  sort  for  the 
Board  of  Trade  people ;  you  know  the  line  of  country— over- 
work ;  nervous  exhaustion ;  need  of  rest  and  change  of  scene ; 
and  you'll  be  ready  to  start  with  me  from  Charing  Cross  on 
Monday." 

Harold  thanked  his  disinterested  adviser  with  gloomy  grati- 
tude, and  completed  his  arrangements  with  an  internal  chuckle. 
As  he  left  the  room,  he  didn't  himself  observe  that  his  fingers 
were  toying  once  more  in  a  nervous  way  with  that  unfortunate 
button.  If  he  had,  indeed,  he  would  only  have  reflected  with  a 
mental  smile  that  he  was  simulating  the  s^inptoms  even  better 
than  he  intended.  But  Dr.  Yate-Westbury  noticed  it  with  his 
keen  glance,  and  remarked  to  his  assistant,  as  Harold  disap- 
peared towards  the  front  door,  "  Remarkable  case,  Prendergast. 
sVe  must  keep  our  eye  upon  him.  Premonitory  signs  of  acute 
iementia  ;  and  what's  more  odd,  the  worst  among  them  are  not 
ti  all  the  ones  he  himself  seems  to  think  the  most  important  I  " 


pp 


^i-4 


iiUk   tkiAii  uir  •Aiikji. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


*- 


BTRIOTLT  PROFESSIONAL. 

To  Harold  Knyvett  the  voyage  to  Algiers  came  as  a  welcome 
amusement.  He  really  wanted  rest ;  he  was  glad  to  escape  from 
London  fog  and  London  mud,  after  the  intense  strain  of  the  last 
few  inonths,  to  the  olives,  and  mulberry  trees,  and  evergreens  of 
the  South.  As  the  tmin  ili'  luxe  from  Paris  rolled  along  in  the 
early  morning  li^'ht  down  the  wide  Rhone  Valley,  past  gardens 
still  gay  with  roses  and  anemones,  pass  cypress  walla  that 
guanU'.ti  the  tender  vineyards  from  the  cold  blast  of  the  icy 
mistral,  past  distant  v  stis  of  the  snow-clad  Alps,  past  fields 
where  bronzed  Provencal  peasants  toiled  in  the  broad  sunshine 
anio.ig  luscious  flowers,  he  was  gratified  at  the  success  of  his 
»-use,  and  delighted  at  the  fx'eshness  and  perennial  beauty  of  the 
"ver-glorious  i\le(literranean  bcn'der-land.  A  certain  indefinite 
Mxaltation  of  success  lilled  all  bis  heart.  Things  were  going  well 
with  liim.  Fortune  favoured.  For  be  whs  on  his  way  to  Mus- 
tapha,  to  the  very  next  bouse  to  Sir  Arthur's  villa,  with  the 
ibi'ged  will  buttoned  safely  up  in  his  mner  breast-pocket,  and  all 
in  the  most  natural  possible  fashion,  l^ven  the  suggestion  to 
"  Try  Algiers  "  had  not  come  from  witlun.  His  chief  had  recom- 
mended him  to  consult  Vate- u  estlmry  ;  and  Yate- Westbury 
would  be  able  to  relate  hereafter  to  bis  acquaintances  the  curious 
coincidence  how  this  lucky  young  man  in  t'  Board  of  Trade 
had  come  to  him  for  advice,  quite  by  accident.  Hbout  a  nervous 
roinplaint — ovei'work  and  loss  of  memory  ;  bow  he  had  urged 
/iim  to  visit  tiie  soothing  climate  of  North  Aljica;  and  how  the 
U|>>b()t  of  It  all  was  the  incitleiital  discovery  of  the  long-lost  will, 
inearthed  m  some  remote  corner  of  Sir  Arthur's  villa — that  will 
which  restored  the  property  to  the  right/uJ  heir,  and  brought 
about  at  last  the  happy  re-union  of  the  Knyvett  family. 

For  he  meant  to  marry  Iris  in  the  long  run.  The  estate  itself 
waa  uuw  to  some  extent  a  minor  matter.     He  regarded  it  merely 


^f5'"' 


.11'  I    II  n  'tmrn^mm^^f^m 


TUS    TKNTS    OF    8HUM. 


liO.i 


\n  h  mnani  to  an  end.  And  the  end  was  to  brin'^  that  proud 
^\t\  lu  hcsr  knuoa  ;  to  compel  her  to  marry  him,  willy-nilly. 

Ilu  loveil  Iris.  He  wnidd  have  Iria.  No  power  in  the  world 
nluMild  keep  him  from  Iris.  The  only  girl  on  earth  he  had  ever 
nimd  twopence  about.  The  only  girl  on  earth  who  was  really 
VMitliy  of  hitn. 

Su  he  rolled  along  in  liigh  good  humour  down  to  Marseilles, 
•..liiig  success  now  well  in  view,  and  went  with  joy  on  board  the 
yUU  lie  XdfdeSf  which  was  to  carry  Harold  Knyvett  and  all  hia 
fortunes — forged  will  included — to  the  golden  shores  of  sunny 
Africa. 

The  sole  drawback  to  hia  pleasure,  indeed,  was  that  intolerable 
ijld  bore  of  a  nervous  specialist,  who  insisted  upon  treating  him 
iifl  a  critical  patient — half  cracked,  in  short — and  reading  him 
rtermons  on  the  absolute  need  for  distracting  hia  mind  from  his 
Dwn  absorbing  personality.  Harold  Knyvett  dl<"!ii't  want  his 
irund  distracted  just  then.  He  was  more  than  disti  ted  enon,.;h 
•ilready.  It  was  a  nuisance,  when  you  preferred  to  admire  the 
l)hu)  l)ay  and  the  white  Provencal  hills  recedi?  <  in  tlo  dist-i.ce, 
U)  be  (compelled  to  listen  to  that  frantic  old  lUiot's  iJioftssional 
ilrivel,  and  wv  .jar  in  raind  spasmodically  from  time  tn  time  the 
ueceP"^'ty  for  keeping  up  somehow  the  mostpromiueni  symptoms. 
Not  that  the  twitching  of  the  fingers  gave  him  much  trouble  by 
bhis  time.  Practice  makes  perfect.  He  was  able  to  manage  that 
part  of  the  farce,  thank  goodness,  without  the  slightest  apparent 
jffort.  The  state  of  nervous  tension  into  whioh  he  had  been 
Bhrown  by  the  consciousness  of  holding  the  forged  will  concealed 
ibout  his  person,  and  by  the  momentous  issues  depending  upon 
die  Buccess  of  his  well-laid  scheme,  made  a  certain  amount  of 
aneasy  fingering,  indeed,  perfectly  natural  to  him.  Yon  can 
•jimuiate  nervousness  readily  enough — when  you  really  feel  it ; 
the  difficulty  would  have  been,  in  Harold's  condition,  to  simulate 
the  calm  of  uneventful  existence. 

••  What  you  have  most  to  guard  against,  '  Dr.  Yate- Westbury 
remarked  once  in  a  confidential  undertone,  as  they  paced  the 
'lock  together,  cigar  in  mouth  •*  is  too  exclusive  a  concentration 
af  mind  and  thought  upon  your  own  personality  and  your  own 
interests.  You  live  too  much  in  yourself,  my  dear  sir :  that's 
what's  the  matter  with  you.  Your  brain's  wrapped  up  in  private 
ichomes  and  designs  and  ideas ;  I  can  see  them  whirling  and 
('ir<;lifig  in  your  head.  You  ought  to  be  married,  and  enlarge 
your  si)here  ;  a  wife  and  children  would  drive  ail  that  sort  of 
lliiug  promptly  out  of  you." 


^^^m^WW':' 


^ym 


^a'f^^mm^i 


^i 


itilfi   TttM'S   Olf   uasM* 


Harold  laughed  in  'lig  sleeve  to  think  how  curiously  the  mad* 
doctor  had  put  his  huger  by  accident  upon  the  very  point.  Hern 
acu  tetiyiu  His  mind  was  indeed  wrapped  up  in  private  schemes 
and  designs  and  ideac.  He  stroked  his  breast  pocket  stealthily 
with  his  hand  outside.  It  was  .saf(\  quite  safe,  that  precious 
document  I  He  could  feel  it  rustle  under  the  coat  as  he  pressed, 
His  private  schemes  and  designs  and  ideas,  indeed  I  Ah,  yes, 
but  they  all  led  on  by  a  direct  route  to  that  very  marriage  which 
the  doctor  counselled.  A  wife  and  children!  Ho,  ho;  the 
humour  of  it  I  Well — a  wife,  if  you  like  ;  a  wife's  all  righi; 
enough;  bub  as  for  the  children,  why  Harold  was  strongly  inclined 
to  say  about  them,  ♦'  Le  Roy's  avisera."  He  didn't  want  a  par- 
cel of  noisy  brats  runnin,^^  about  the  place — the  mansion  of  his 
fancy.  All  he  wanted  was  a  peaceful  intorclian;j[e  of  ideas  in 
spacious  grounds  witli  such  a  girl  as  Iris — a  phuiaant  companion 
la.  I  on,  as  it  were,  like  the  gas,  and  the  wator,  and  the  electric 
bells,  and  ready  at  any  moment  to  amuse  and  divert  him  with 
her  chatty  conversation,  i..  .1  her  tender  playfulness. 

•'  The  great  error  of  the  nervous  constitution."  the  specialist 
went  on,  puffing  away  retlectively  at  one  of  Harold's  very  best 
Fortuna  di  Cubas,  "  is,  not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon  it^ 
selfishness.  My  system  of  cure  consists  entirely  in  such  a  course 
of  rational  treatment  as  will  succeed  in  taking  tlie  patient  fairly 
out  of  himself.  The  narrow  circle  of  one's  own  interests  leada 
at  last  to  nervous  disintegration.  People  should  avoid  being  too 
self-centred.  That  way,  as  Shakespeare  says,  madness  hes. 
One's  got  strenuously  to  fight  against  it,  or  else  to  succumb  to  it. 
Have  you  read  my  book  on  Mental  Disease  ?  You  know  the 
theory  I  there  lay  down  on  the  origin  of  insanity  ?  " 

The  subject  was  intensely  distasteful  just  then  tc  Harold, 
"  No,  I  haven't,"  he  answered,  with  some  asperity.  *'  I  avoid  all 
books  on  the  brain  on  principle." 

♦*  Well,  my  theory  is,"  Yate-Westbury  went  on  with  profes- 
sional zeal,  disregarding  his  tone,  **  that  insanity's  not  a  malady 
of  the  intellect  at  all,  as  most  people  imagine  ;  it's  a  malady  of 
the  social  and  moral  nature.  A  man  who  lives  a  healthly,  varied, 
natural  life — who  mixes  freely  with  his  fellow  men — who  troubles 
himself  much  about  their  welfare  and  their  happiness — who 
reads  and  thinks  and  works  and  plays — who  vividly  represents 
to  himself  the  feelings  and  wishes  and  ideas  of  others — such  a 
man  as  that,  now,  never  goes  mad.  He  haa  no  temptation. 
His  surroundings  are  too  sane  and  his  interests  too  numerous. 
h.  family,  friends,  public  duties,  society — all  those  are  safetfuardfi 


\^ 


iWP 


mmm 


mm 


THS   fSMT8  OW   SiLKM. 


206 


a 


igftiBfl  the  iniane  tendency.  Literature,  science,  art.  poliiios — 
the  wider  your  world,  the  less  your  chance  of  nervous  derange 
ment.  But  the  fellow  who  lives  a  purely  selfish,  concentrated 
life— the  bachelor  who  takes  his  ease  all  day  long  at  his  club— 
the  man  of  means  who  finds  society  and  family  ties  a  bore-, 
whose  social  instincts  are  inefficiently  awakened,  whose  public- 
spirit  is  dormant  or  non-existent — those  are  the  people,  if  you 
look  around,  who  go  mad  easily.  They  take  to  hobbies,  or  else 
to  monomanias,  borne  pc.'t  desipfn  or  some  favourite  scheme, 
most  often  purely  personal,  absorbs  their  energies.  If  it  suc- 
i-eeds,  they  go  mod  with  delight ;  if  it  fails,  they  go  mad,  per 
lontra,  with  disapi)ointnient. 

Harold's  fingers  toyed  unconsciously  with  the  top  button  ol 
his  tweed  tourist  suit.  The  precious  paper  rustled  melodiously 
mderueath.     The  sound  was  like  muffled  music  in  his  ears. 

•*  You  think  so  ?  "  he  said,  half-stiiiing  a  yawn.  "  You  think 
fiisanity  depends  upon  seli-concentration  ?" 

"Think  so  !  "   Yate-Westbury  echoed,  with  a  touch  of  con 
lempt  in  the  hitonation  of  his  voice.     "  Think  so  I     My   deai 
\(ir,  1  don't  think  so;  I  know  it.     I've  studied  the  question.  Tht 
j^roof  s  just  this.     You  must  have  met  madmen   over  and  ovei 

agam  in  asylums " 

••  I  don't  visit  asyhnns."  Harold  interposed,  dryly. 
"  Still  you  must  have  met  madnjen,   aiiyhow,"   the    doctoi 
vvent  on,  warming  up  to  his  subject,  "  who  thought  t.iiey   wer. 
rich,  who  thought  they  were  poor,  who  thought  they  v»ere  Napo 
loon,  who  thought  they  were  the  rightful  heir  to  tlie  Crown,  whe 
thought  they  were  the  authors  of '  Paradise  Lost,'  who  thought 
they  were  persecuted  by  wicked  rela-.ions,  who  thought  they  were 
the  Czar  or  the  Prophet  Mahomet.     But  you  never  met  a  mad- 
man anywhere  who  thought  naniehody  else  had  come  into  a  for- 
lune,  houicImvIi/  ehe  was  the    Khan    of  Taitary,  sanifhudy  else  was 
followed  and  annoyed,  .sumJiodi/  c/.sr  was  the  ill-used  iidieritor  oi 
llie  Throne  of  England.     Sulf,  self,  self,  self.     All  insare  people 
have  but  one  cry  :  /  am  this,  /  am  that,  /  am  the  other.     Its  /, 
/,  y,  whatever  they  say.      They  forget  their  children,  their  wives, 
their  friends,  their  enemies  ;  but  they  never  for  a  single  nu' 
meni  forget  their  own  delusion  or  their  own  pet  grievance." 

Harold  moved  away  restlessly,  with  a  moody  air,  towards  ilic 
side  of  the  ship.  This  talk  annoyed  him.  lie  didn't  want  to 
lie  bored  by  abstract  discussions  about  the  habits  and  manners 
I'.'id  natural  history  of  the  in.sane,  when  he  v.as  going  to  Algiers 
to  pruvti  his  title  to  a  splendid  estate,  and  to  compel  his  cousin 


206 


THX    TENTS   OF    ■HXll. 


Iris  to  marry  him  I  He  was  fall  of  himself,  and  resented  bore 
dom.  A  man  can't  be  worriccl  with  rubbish  like  that  while  his 
soul  brims  over,  seetliing  with  one  great  design,  on  whose  success 
or  failure  he  has  staked  his  whole  futvire  fate  and  happiness. 
One  picture  alone  now  usurped  his  brain  and  monopolised  con- 
sciousness ;  the  picture  of  iiimself,  rummaging  drawers  at  the 
villa  at  Sidi  Aia,  and  engai^ed  in  discovering  Sir  Arthur's  will — 
the  forged  one,  of  course  ;  but  that  was  a  detail — in  some  hidden 
corner  of  his  uncle's  escritoire. 

And  then  to  bb  obliged  to  listen  respectfully  to  that  old  image 
droning,  droninjjf,  droning  on — ••  the  great  thing  to  avoid  is 
intense  preoccupation  with  one's  own  affairs  ;  too  profound  an 
entanglement  in  any  private  or  personal  piece  of  business.  To 
people  of  the  selfish  or  self-centred  type,  such  preoccupation  is 
frequently  next  door  to  fatal.  It  drives  them  at  last  by  slow 
degrees  into  acute  dementia." 

Good  heavens  !  Would  the  man  never  cease  his  chatter  ? 
Gabble,  gabble,  gabble  the  whole  day  long  1  And  Sir  Arthur's 
will  nestling  all  the  time  in  his  safe  breast-pocket !  Preoccupa- 
tion, indeed  1  Who  could  help  being  preoccupied  ?  Sir  Arthur'n 
fortune,  and  Iris  Knjvett  I 


\ 


■jr- 


TSNTB   OV   BBXIC 


107 


OHAPTEB  XXXn. 


•*  AUX   ABMBS,    OITOYKNS  I  *•  \  '.;  / 

Up  in  the  mountains,  meanwhile,  strange  things  were  taking 
place  among  those  idyllic  Kabyles.  But  neither  Le  Marchant 
nor  Blake  nor  Meriem  knew  as  yet  anything  about  them. 

It  was  a  chilly  evening  of  the  Algerian  winter. 

The  naturalist  was  sitting  at  home,  somewhat  shivering  in  the 
tent,  trying  on  a  complete  new  suit  of  woollen  Kabyle  costume 
which  he  had  bought  as  a  curiosity  at  a  neighbouring  market  to 
take  home  to  England.  Vernon  Blake  was  dining  out  by  special 
invitation  at  the  Fort  at  St.  Cloud,  where  Iris  and  he  were  con- 
versing unreproved  with  much  animation  under  Uncle  Tom's  very 
nose — so  unsuspicious  is  age  when  once  its  views  are  firmly 
hardened.  And  Meriem  was  seated  on  the  hard  mud  floor  in 
her  own  room  at  the  Amine's  cottage,  thinking  in  her  poor 
lonely  soul  how  much  better  it  would  have  been  for  her  if  those 
two  flaring  meteors  of  Englishmen  had  never  darted  with  their 
disturbing  influence  across  her  peaceful,  old-fashioned  Kabyle 
horizon. 

But  on  the  hillside  without  a  very  dijfferent  scene  might  have 
presented  itself  to  her  eyes,  had  she  happened  to  look  forth 
towards  the  village  platform  from  her  narrow  mud  window. 
For  there,  under  the  open  sky,  and  in  the  broad  moonlight, 
the  men  of  the  Beni-Merzoug  were  assembled  together  in 
the  ancient  fashion  under  all  arms,  and  in  their  midst  the  eldest 
of  the  marabouts  stood  erect,  with  flashing  eyes,  and  stretched 
his  bare  arms  heavenwards  in  awful  prayer  before  the  eager  eyes 
of  the  whole  assembly. 

'♦  Hush  I  "  the  Amine  cried,  with  a  commanding  voice,  as  the 
marabout  beckoned  with  one  hand  for  silence.  *'  The  servant  of 
Allah  wiU  speak  over  the  chosen  youths — the  youths  who  go 
forth,  like  tlioir  father's  of  old,  for  the  defence  of  their  fatherland 
against  the  infidel  and  the  oppressor." 


208 


THB  TINT!   OF  IHIM. 


A  great  stillness  fell  at  his  words  apon  the  entire  meeting.  The 
buzz  and  hum  uf  voices  ceased  at  once  to  thrill,  and  the  meri 
(liopped  down  at  the  signal  on  their  hended  knees  before  i\n- 
flowing  faces  of  the  inspired  marabout.  Incense  rose  in  fumi'- 
Irom  a  brazier  in  the  midst — the  poisonous,  intoxicating  incense 
of  haschisch* 

The  marabout  spread  out  both  arms  slowly  over  their   hea<l.-. 
"The  blessing  of  Allah,"   he  cried  aloud,  "of    Allah,  the   All 
wise,  the  All-merciful,  be  with  you." 

"So  be  it,"  the  young  men  responded,  solemnly. 

"Friends,"  the  ma'iabout  began,  once  more,  as  they  knelt  ami 
bent  their  heads,  in  a  serried  body,  "you  know  well  the  crisis 
and  the  customs  of  the  Kabyles.  It  was  the  way  of  oui  fathers 
when  hordes  like  locuats  invaded  their  land,  to  call  upon  the 
chosen  young  men  of  the  tribes  to  band  themselves  together  by 
solemn  oath  into  a  sacred  legion.  The  more  forlorn  the  hope, 
the  greater  their  courage  ;  for  the  sons  of  the  Kabyles  shrink 
not  from  self-sacrifice.  It  is  your  duty,  too,  in  like  manner  to 
nacrifice  your  lives  to-day  for  your  country.  To  that  end  we 
have  proclaimed  a  Sacred  War,  when  Islam  shall  rire  in  all  its 
nJght  against  the  power  of  the  Infidel.  In  such  a  war,  there  is 
no  going  back.  It  is  when  the  lion  rushes  upon  the  spears 
You  will  take  the  oath  before  the  face  of  Allah.  The  prayers 
for  the  dead  shall  be  read  over  you  all,  for  5011  go  to  yt)ur 
death,  and  you  come  not  back,  except  upon  trestles,  or  else  witli 
victory.  Those  who  die  in  the  conflict  shall  be  buried  apart,  in 
the  cemetery  of  the  saints,  in  the  field  of  glory  ;  and  each  man 
among  them,  dying  for  the  Faith,  shall  be  reckoned  as  a  saint 
and  counted  a  Sidi.  Prayers  shall  be  offered  for  ever  at  his  tomb, 
and  the  blessing  of  Allah  shall  rest  upon  it  always.  But  if  any 
of  you  escape  with  loss  of  honour  from  the  field,  his  corpse  shall 
rot  like  a  camel's  in  the  desert.  He,  and  alibis  kindred,  shall 
bf^  held  for  ever  in  utter  contempt  by  all  the  Faithful  as  digs 
ijkd.  outcasts."  *= 

The  young  men  bowed  their  foreheads  to  the  ground  with  en«' 
accord,  and  with  military  precision.  We  acce])t,"  they 
answered,  "  we  go,  for  Allah  1'  and  with  their  faces  turned  one 
way  toward  Mecca,  tuey  prayed  silently  for  a  few  minutes. 


u 


You 


swear. 


the 


marabout  said  again- 


-as  they  rose  from  th^ 


tit 


ground — holding  out  in  his  hand  a  roll  of  the  Koran,  "you 
swear  by  this  sacred  book,  which  came  from  Mecca,  and  by  the 
holy  tomb  of  our  Lord  of  Kerouan,  the  companion  of  thti  Pro- 
phet, to  wnge   a   Jehad  to  the  death  against  all  the  infidels,  aftd 


11 


^Wr 


f, I m  j»^  i,.„w}».,n'""R.'«" , .}'Mm  ^f^f^f^^^n^ 


T'w^P^!'. 


■P?iff*""*"i">>MI"iPiPiPPM!il 


■MHP 


TBI  TBirri  •»  ikvii. 


cot 


ika 


never  to  return  from  the  field  of  battle  eave  dead  or  Tie- 
torious.** 

"  We  swear,"  the  young  men  answered  lolemnlj,  with  uplifted 
bands. 

"  Lp^  a  Taleb  come  forward,"  tho  maraboat  said,  stretching 
his  baid  arms  once  more  heavenward. 

Hadji  Daood  ben  Marabet  staj^gered  slowly  forward,  and  took 
the  roll  from  the  marabout's   hands  in  his  trembling  fingers. 
Unfolding  it  spasmodically,  and  with  due  deliberation,  the  tooth- 
less old  man  came  at  last  in  his  search  to  the  fourteenth  chapter 
which   enjoins   on  the  Faithful  the  duty  of  exterminating  the 
infidels  everywhere.      Bending  over  the  book,  he   read  these 
terrible  lines  aloud  in  tlieir  sonorous  Arali;^  with  that  peculiar 
droning,    sing-song   voice   which   lends  so  much  mystery  anu 
solemnity  of  tone  to  Mahommedan  ceremonial.  His  words  thrilled 
them.     Every  curse   told  home   separately.     The  men,  it  wap 
clear,  were  deeply   stirred.     They  clasped  their  short  Kabyle 
knives  with  desperate  resolution  in  their  trembling  fingers,  and*, 
waited  impatiently  for   the  signal  to  march  upon   their  deadly 
errand. 

The  voice  of  the  reader  wavered  at  last  upon  the  awful  closing 
sentence,  "Neither  man  nor  woman,  lord  nor  servant,  old  age  nor 
infancy  :  spare  none,  but  slay  ;  spill  their  blood  on  the  ground ; 
let  the  infidels  perish  utterly  from  the  earth,  saith  Allah." 

A  deep  murmur  of  Amens  ran  like  a  shudder  through  that 
heaving  crowd.  Hadji  Daood  sank  back,  exhausted,  into  the  ring. 
Then  the  marabout  stepped  forth  once  more,  with  his  wild  locks 
tossed  shaggily  over  his  bronzed  forehead,  and  in  a  loud  voice, 
with  foaming  mouth,  began  to  recite  in  solemn  tones  the  prayers 
for  the  dead  over  the  chosen  youths,  pointing  with  his  finger  to 
their  bodies  while  he  spoke,  as  though  each  of  them  lay  already 
on  his  bier  in  an  open  grave  spread  out  before  him. 

The  effect  was  electric,  overwhelming,  irresistible.  The  old 
men,  standing  round,  sobbed  aloud  over  the  heads  oi  their 
doomed  sons.  The  young  men,  kneeling  in  front,  felt  the  tears 
trickle  slowly  down  their  hot  cheeks.  The  marabout  himself 
faltered  once  or  twice  with  a  choking  voice,  and  then  went  on 
again,  sustained,  as  it  seemed,  in  his  holy  task  by  some  direct 
inspiration  of  his  blood-thirsty  deity.  His  features  were  deadly 
pale  and  convulsed,  and  his  hmbs  were  working  as  though  drawn 
by  wires.  At  the  close  of  the  prayers,  all  rose  once  more  in  their 
long  white  robes,  and  the  marabout  cried  aloud,  in  a  more  martial 
tone,  "You  have  heard  your  duty!     Go  now  and  perform  it  1 


""M^'-' ' 


210 


THS   TSNTS   or   BHEM. 


be  Beni-Yenni  and  the  Aith  Menguellath  are  marcliing  on  St. 
Jloud,  March  you,  too,  direct,  and  surprise  the  infidels  in  tlieir 
beds  as  they  sleep.  Slay,  slay,  slay — men,  women  and  cbilJren. 
Let  not  one  single  Christian  escape  with  his  life.  French,  Eng- 
lish, or  Spaniard,  slay  all  alike ;  but  above  all,  slay  her,  tlie 
enemy  of  your  race,  the  high-heeled  woman  I  Avenge  on  her, 
and  all  beneath  her  roof,  the  bones  of  the  blessed  Sheikh  el- 
Haddad  the  Blacksmith  I  Avenge  on  her  the  bones  of  8i  Mo- 
hammad Said  with  the  Two  Tombs,  whose  Loly  remains  slio 
cast  out  on  the  field  to  be  defiled  by  dogs  and  vultures  and 
■ackals  !  " 

With  a  loud  unearthly  shout,  the  whole  vast  body,  seizing  rifleis 
and  swords,  put  itself  tumultuously  and  fiercely  under  way. 
Ueligious  frenzy  and  the  fumes  from  the  brazier  had  driven  tlif 
men  mad.  Their  lips  were  blue  ;  their  eyes  started  lioni  their 
sockets ;  great  drops  of  sweat  poured  down  their  pale  and  hagLcar(! 
faces.  ••  Jehad  1  Jehad  I  "  they  cried,  in  a  mad  shriek  for  ven- 
geance. "  Death  to  the  infidel  1  To  St.  Cloud  I  To  St.  Cloud ! 
Slay,  slay,  every  man,  every  woman,  every  child  of  them  !  " 

The  musicians  in  front  beat  upon  their  drums,  and  twangor! 
aloud  their  tortoise-shell  lyres.  The  wild  discordant  music  of 
the  tom-toms  and  castanets  seemed  to  intensify  and  hillame  thei'- 
fury.  "  To  St.  Cloud  I  "  the  marabout  shouted,  at  the  top  oi 
his  voice,  in  fierce  tones,  his  hair  now  flying  loose  on  the  breeze 
behind,  his  eyes  bloodshot,  and  his  mouth  foaming.  He  wave( 
his  bare  arms  wildly  around  him.  "  Slay  the  high -heeled 
woman,"  he  shouted,  *•  and  all  her  house,  in  honour  of  Allah  and 
Mahomet  His  Prophet ;  and  cast  forth  her  body  for  dogs  to  eat. 
as  Jehu  of  Israel  cast  forth  the  body  of  Jezebel,  the  idolatress, 
before  the  gates  of  Jezreel,  and  as  Omar  the  Caliph,  cast  forth 
the  body  of  the  accursed  Roumi  before  the  gates  of  Sidon." 

At  the  word,  he  dragged  a  goat  from  behind  into  their  midst. 
'*  Taste  blood,"  he  shrieked,  and  flung  it  towards  them.  With 
hideous  shouts,  the  fanatics  rushed,  with  hooked  fingers,  upon 
that  symbolical  victim,  tore  it  limb  from  limb  alive  and  bleeding, 
and  fought  with  one  another  like  wild  beasts  for  the  quivering 
morsels,  more  after  the  fashion  of  ravenous  wolves  than  of  human 
beings.  Their  faces  and  hands  reeked  with  blood.  "  Now,  on 
to  St.  Cloud,"  the  marabout  yelled  out,  tearing  a  live  snake  and 
devouring  it  before  their  e\  es. 

•*  Jehad  t  Jehad  I  "  the  crowd  shouted  aloud,  in  response,  with 
savage  tumult.     ''  Slay,   slay,  the   vuiue  of  Allah  pruclaims  it  i 


,  I 


Taa  TXNTi  or  bhxm. 


211 


ii 


A  Holy  War  I    Df^ath,  death  to  the  infidels.  *    And,  dnink  witli 
blood  and  hascliisch,  they  dashed  madly  onward. 

Meriem  in  her  own  room,  sitting  still  on  the  floor,  heard  with 
•surprise  the  tramp  of  feet  and  the  mingled  noise  of  many  voices, 
tiid  rushed  to  her  window,  breathless,  to  learn  the  meaning  of  it. 
Vs  she  did  bo,  she  caught  the  last  echoes  of  those  shrill  cries, 
lehad  I  Joliad  I  Slay  the  high-heeled  woman  and  all  her  house ! 
A  Holy  War  I    Death,  death  to  the  infidels  1 "      , 

In  a  moment  her  reeling  brain  took  it  all  in.     She  guessed 

>vhat  \i  meant.     She  understood  instinctively.     Her  quick  wit 

ealized  the  truth  at  once  in  all  its  hideous  implications.     They 

vere  going  to  St.  Cloud  to  murder  tJie  Europeans  I     And  amongst 

hem  they  would  murder  Iris  and  Vernon  1 

At  the  pound,  Islam  died  out  within  her. 

For  to  Murium,  a  Jehad  was  no  idle  word.  She  had  heard 
iwful  tales  on  the  village  platform,  many  a  summer  evening,  of 
the  groat  uprising  of  1870.  She  had  heard  from  the  mouths  of 
the  actors  themselves  how  the  religious  fanatics  of  that  troublous 
time  had  massacred,  in  hot  blood,  the  entire  population  of 
Palaestro  ;  had  carried  off  into  slavery  the  women  and  children  of 
ilie  European  villages  scattered  throughout  Kabylie ;  had  burnt 
r.o  the  ground  every  farmhouse,  church,  and  oil-mill  in  the 
iiountains  ;  had  besieged  Bougie  and  invested  Djidjelly  ;  ha(^ 
spread  fire  and  alaugliter  far  and  wide  through  the  land. 
Vora  the  valley  at  Tizi-Ouzou  to  the  eagle's  nest  of  French 
soldiers  perched  on  the  precipitous  heights  of  the  Fort  National 
She  knew  that  when  the  fierce  and  fiory  Kabyle  olood  is  up 
neither  childing  mother  nor  speechless  babe  will  be  spared  from 
Llie  slaughter  by  their  indiscriminate  fury.  She  knew  that  her 
•ountrynieu  would  fall  upon  St.  Cloud  like  wolves  upon  a  slieep- 
Ibld,  and  rend  Iris  and  Vernon  to  pieces  like  vultures  in  theii 
fanatic  madness." 

A  Holy  War  I     A  campaign  against  the  infidels  !     Vernon  and 
Lris — her  dearest  on  earth  I     In  that  decisive  moment  the  fait! 
of  her  childhood  went  down  like  water  before  her  instinctivi 
feelings.     At  all  hazards,  she  must  save  the  lives  of  the  Chris 
cians  I 

There  was  but  one  thing  to  do;  to  make  fit  once,  with  ii 
speed,  for  the  valley  at  Tizi-Ouzou.  It  was  too  i.ite  now  to  war 
die  garrison  at  St.  Cloud.  She  saw  her  countrymen  were  we 
on  the  road  to  the  I'ort  already,  and  she  oould  never  hope  to  pas^ 


lit 


VHB   TENTS   OF   SHXlf. 


'ci- 


thern by  undptpctod,  even  if  her  feet  were  fleet  enortTh  and 
strong  enough  to  overtake  and  outrun  them.  But  tlie  ^.in'iaon, 
though  surprised,  mij^ht  lioUl  out  till  moniintj;.  Slie  had  heard 
of  the  iron  wires  that  carry  news  with  liglitning  speed  for  the 
iniidel — of  the  iron  horse  that  drags  his  carriages  like  clouds 
before  the  sirocco.  If  she  could  but  reach  Tizi-Ouzou  and  wUrn 
the  French  there  to  telegraph  to  Algiers,  help  might  yet  arrive 
in  time  to  save  them.  I'o  save  Iris  :  to  save  Vernon  I  The 
Kabyle  within  her  was  forgotten  altogether  in  her  burning  desire 
to  protect  from  death  those  two  she  had  learned  to  love  so  dearly. 
Traitress  as  she  might  be  to  her  own  people,  she  had  but  one 
thought — to  save  Iris  and  Vernon  I 

Bhe  lifted  the  latch  of  the  rude  door,  and  stole  out  unperceived 
to  the  entrance  of  the  tent,  where  Eustace  stood  within,  in  the 
Kabyle  dress  he  had  just  been  tryhig  on,  and  wliich  transformed 
him  at  once  into  a  perfect  native.  Meriera  started  to  see  him, 
but  had  no  time  for  comments.  **  Eustace,"  she  cried  in  haste, 
snatching  up  a  flask  that  lay  upon  the  box,  "  they've  made  a 
Jehad — a  sacred  war.  My  people  have  risen.  It's  death  to  the 
infidels.  They're  inarphing  on  St.  Cloud  to  kill  the  Christians. 
The  whole  village  together  has  turned  out  in  arms.  I  saw  them 
myself — the  marabout  at  their  head  I  They  mean  to  kill  every 
soul  in  the  Fort  I     What  can  we  do — to  save  Iris  and  Vernon  ?  " 

In  her  startled  %ce  Eustace  read  the  whole  truth  instinctively 
at  once.  Jle  knew  the  impetuous  Moslem  nature  too  well  to 
doubt  that  Meriem  was  right  in  her  strange  story.  '*  We  must 
go  on  and  warn  them  I  "  he  cried  in  answer,  hurriedly. 

**  Too  late  I  "  Meriera  sobbed  out.  "  No  chance  for  that  I 
They're  on  the  road  already.  Our  people  have  started.  I  saw 
them  go.  There's  no  other  way  down.  We  could  never  get 
past  them." 

'*  Can  they  telegraph  to  Tizi-Ouzou  ?  "  Eustace  asked  in  haste. 
"  If  reinforcements  could  come,  they  might  hold  out  for  a  day 
or  so." 

Merien  shook  her  head  despondently.  "  My  people  would  be 
sure  to  cut  the  wire,"  she  answered,  in  agony,  "  They  know  all 
that.  It  crosses  the  path.  Even  I,  who  am  only  a  girl,  had 
beard  of  it." 

"  Then  there's  nothing  for  it  but  to  tramp  to  Tizi-Ouzou," 
Eustace  answered  at  once,  with  prompt  decision.  "  Our  only 
hope  lies  in  rousing  the  authorities  there ;  they  might  telegraph 
OB  for  help  to  Algiers  and  Fort  National.    Como  on,  Meriena. 


' 


FWimim't^^V 


T 


^•^ 


:f!!pWfWP»f^ 


••,11.  ) 


There's  not  a  moment  to  lose.  Oomu  with  me,  and  tell  them 
when  you  get  there  what  you've  seen.  We  might  ride,  perhaps. 
There  are  mules  outside.  Let's  seize  them,  and  run  down  at 
once  to  Tizi  Ouzou." 

So,  quick  as  thought,  going  forth  from  the  tent,  in  his  Kabyle 
dress  unchanged  as  he  stood  (it  was  safer  so),  he  caught  the  first 
two  mules  he  could  find  in  the  field,  and  slipping  on  a  bridle  in 
breathless  haste  mounted  one  of  them  himself  to  descend  the 
mountain.  Meriem,  without  one  word,  held  and  mounted  the 
other.  And  in  such  strange  guise  did  those  two  set  off  through 
the  moonlight,  alone,  to  arouse  the  unconscious  settlers  of  Tizi- 
Oaaott  to  a  sense  of  the  danger  that  threatened  ths  oolonj. 


■Cr- 


■>-^  -  .. 


t> 


■ff^ 


"    w 


TlliC    TKNib    III-     SI. 


CIIAITER  XXXlir. 


AMONO    THB    BNOWS. 


They  had  gone  but  a  fe\7  hundred  yards  down  tho  yviss,  ridinjf 
single  file  on  the   narrow  Kabyle   roaii,  whicli  cactus  and  aloe    i 
obstructed  on  eithnr  side,  wlien  suddenly  Moriem,  who  went  tirst, 
was  brought  to  a  'nit  by  tlie  sharp  and  sliort  report  of  a  pistol,    : 
fired  full  in  the  face  of  lier  borrowed  mount.     C'r'r'r,  it  whizzed 
past  the  mule's  very  nose.      The  aniniii!   reansd   upriu^ht   with 
terror  on  its  haunclies  ft>r  a  moment,  and  ^hM■iem,  lookini,'  aliead 
towards   the  darkhng    bushes    in    front,  called   out   in    Kabyle, 
tremulously,  but  in  very  clear  tones,  •*  Who's  tluire  I     Why  fire  '. 
at  us  ?  " 

As  she  spoke,  two  men  crept  cautiously  out  from  the  shadow 
of  the  lentisk  >icrub,  and  one  of  them  answered  in  a  sulky  voice, 
and  in  the  same  tongue,  which  Eustace  could  now  just  vaguely 
follow,  •*  Wlio  are  you,  and  where  are  you  off  to-night,  the  wrong 
way  down,  when  the  sons  of  the  Kabyles  are  marching  in  amass 
against  the  hnmes  of  the  intidel  ?  " 

The   men  wire  not   of  her  own   tribe,  Meriera   knew  at  once,     ; 
by    their    peculiar   di;i.lect.     They    were    Beni-Yenni,    from   the    ^' 
village  beyond  the  fort,  posted   there,  no  doubt  by  arrangement, 
to  guard    the     pass    down    to    Tizi-Ouzou    against    retreating 
Christians.     There  must  he  dozens  more  of  th(un  picketed  lower 
down  the  road.     To  proceed  that  way  would   he  clearly  useless. 
Retreat    was    impossible,    so    Meriem    tenqtorised.       "  I  am  a 
woman,"  she  said, — "  a  true  believer — and    I    was  going  to   the    ." 
chief  of  the   Pieni-Yenni,  with  letters  and   messages   from  the 
Amhie  of  the  Beni-Merzoug." 

The  stranger,  advancing,  seized  the  bridle  of  her  mule  with  a 
suspicious  glance. 

**  And  your  husband  ?"  he  cried,  with  a  scowl  at  I^e  Marchant. 
"  Why  is  he,  a  man  of  military  age,  skulking  from  the  Holy  War 
at  such  a  moment  7  " 

"  My  husband,"  Meriera  answered,  with  trembling  lips,  hoping 
in  her  heart  Eustace  would  have  the  sense  not  to  break  into 


wmmB 


but.   'ii<..M.s   or 


210 


un-da  and  betray  himMlf  for  a  Chriitiaa,  **  if  A  deaf  and  damb 
iiau.    Ua'i  uselesi  as  a  loldier.    So  my  nnole.  the  Amine,  hn^ 
-itint  him  to  take  care  of  me." 

"It's  a  lie  I  "  the  Kabyle  answered,  wrenching  the  mule  asid 
suddenly,  and  gazing  strainflit  into  Eustace's  eyes.  "  Fire,  Mo 
hammad,  fire  1  These  are  traitors — infidels  I  I  know  tli< 
man's  face.  They're  going  down  to  Tizi-Ouzou  to  warn  th> 
garrison." 

Meriem's  heart  leapt  up  into  her  mouth  at  this  unexpected 
emergency. 

"  Leave  your  mule  and  run,  Meriem,"  Eustace  cried,  in  Eng 
lish,  jumping  as  he  spoke  from  his  own  beast,  and  seizing  hei 
tremulous  hand  hard  in  his.     Next  moment,  a  bullet  whizzed 
iiissnig  past  his  ears,  and  a  short  Kabyle  knife  gleamed  bright  in 
rhe  clear  moonlight. 

The  Englishman  seized  his  assailant  in  his  stout  arms,  and. 
^'rasping  him  round  the  waist,  with  one  violent  effort,  flung  hin 
from  him  heavily  upon  the  path  behind.  Then,  unarmed  as  the} 
were — for  Eustace  hadn't  even  waited  to  hunt  up  his  revolver  in 
die  hurry  of  the  moment — they  turned  and  fled  headlong  into 
die  thick  lentisk  scrub,  and  down  the  steep  gulley  of  broken  hili- 
dde  towards  the  brook  at  the  bottom.  Delay  was  dangerous  with 
^0  many  unseen  enemies  about.  The  stones  under  foot  slipped 
IS  they  went,  for  the  slope  was  rubbly,  and  Eustace  tore  his 
hands  more  than  once  in  clutching  at  the  bushes  to  save  Meriem 
from  too  hasty  and  abrupt  a  descent ;  but  Meriem,  all  barefooted 
lis  she  was,  leaped  lightly  down  unhurt,  like  some  mountah: 
iintelope,  and  planted  her  sole  firmly  at  last  on  the  soft  mould  in 
the  centre  of  the  gully. 

'♦What  can  we  do  now?"  she  whispered  low,  as  shots  were 
heard  again  wliissing  over  their  heads  from  the  rocks  above,  tht 
Kabyles  firing  at  random  in  the  direction  they  had  taken. 
•*  There's  no  getting  down  to  Tizi-Ouzou  at  this  rate,  and  n( 
other  road  except  back  by  the  fort  to  St.  Cloud,  and  so  on  to  Fori 
National." 

Eustace  made  his  mind  up  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 

**  We've  only  one  thing  left  to  do,"  he  answered  boldly. 
"  The  passes  are  held  on  either  side.  We  must  go  over  the 
mountains,  right  across  the  Col,  and  descend  upon  the  Con 
stantine  railway  in  the  valley.  At  Bouira,  or  the  first  othc  i 
station  we  reach,  they  could  telegraph  for  aid  to  Algieri  aui 
Philippeville." 

Meriem  shuddered.    It  seemed  impossible. 


s*' 


.9  fi"3!#i' '  I  »"*.'''"^^Wi' 


'WJlSiiiJWW'^'. 


iia 


rUJC    lii.MM    Uil    aUi:.^. 


*•  Upon  thp  Coustantine  railway  I  "  slie  cried,  in  a  low  voice, 
half  tornlieil.  "  Uver  the  high  mouiitaius  /  No  otlier  way  left' 
We  must  trudge  through  the  biiow  then  I  " 

Ancl  she  ga/-ed  down  ruthfully  at  her  poor  bare  feet,  ill  fitted 
indeed,  for  such  a  walk  as  that  was. 

*'  There's  nothing  else  possible,"  Le  Marchant  answ(.'red,  fol- 
lowing her  eyes  with  his  own  as  they  loolcod  downward  tuaully— 
"for  me  at  loast.  I  must  go  to  Bouira.  But,  Murii^m,  why  uee<.' 
you  accompany  me  ?  Couldn't  you  atoal  hack  unp'^rcuivod  to  tho 
village  ?  The  walk's  too  long  and  too  hard  by  far  for  yuu,  m> 
chUd." 

"Never,"     Meriem     answered,    with    profound    conviction 
'*  Never,  while  Iris  and  Vernon  are  in  danger.     I'll  walk  my  feci 
bare  to  the  bone  before  I  desert  them,  Eustace.     We'll  rouse  all 
Algeria  rather  than  let  them  be  murdered  in  cold  blood  at  Bt. 
Cloud,  if  we  have  to  trudge  through  miles  of  snow  to  do  it." 

Le  Marchant  saw  that  she  meant  what  she  said,  and  ho  niade 
no  attempt  to  turn  her  from  her  purpose.  He  admired  it  too 
much  to  wish  to  interfere  with  it.  '*  Come  on,  then,"  he  said, 
looking  her  full  in  the  face.  *•  We  must  start  at  once.  Not  a 
moment  to  lose.  Up  these  first  heights  here  will  lead  us  to  a 
point  where  we  can  see  the  Djurjura.  Once  we  catch  sight  of 
the  snowy  peaks  in  this  bright  moonlight,  we  can  find  our  way 
well.  We  must  walk  all  night;  but  by  early  morning,  with  good 
luck,  we  may  reach  Bouira." 

Not  another  word  was  spoken.  They  turned  at  once  to  set  out 
toilfully  on  that  difficult  and  dangerous  mountain  journey, 
Between  them  and  the  main  central  valley  of  the  Atlas,  down 
whose  midst  the  Grand  Trunk  lipeof  Algeria,  from  Oran  to  Con- 
stantine,  winds  by  long  gradients  its  tortuous  way,  lay  the  huge 
white  snow-covered  mass  of  the  Djurjura.  Only  two  passes 
threaded  the  lateral  ranges  on  either  side  from  Beni-Merzoug : 
one  of  them  led  back  to  Tizi-Ouzou,  and  was  held  in  force  by  the 
Beni-Yermi  mountaineers  :  the  other  led  forwa?-d  to  the  Fort  at 
St.  Cloud,  and  was  the  one  down  which  the  Beni-Merzoug  ihem- 
selves  had  marched  to  massacre  the  isolated  little  garrison.  How 
far  the  insurrection  might  spread  on  either  side  Le  Marchant  had 
not  the  faintest  conception  ;  but  he  hoped  by  reaching  civilis^,tion 
once  more  on  the  line  of  the  railway  route  he  might  still  be  in 
time  to  avert  the  menaced  massacre  at  that  doomed  outpost.  To 
do  so,  however,  no  plan  was  possible  save  the  desperate  on«  of 
rrosiing  the  snowy  ridge  between  the  sister  peaks  of  Tamgout 
8Bi  Lalla  Khadidjft.    They  had  to  make  their  way  alona  §|  laid 


THX  rnMTB  or  iheu. 


217 


of  night,  through  trackless  wilils  and  over  nntroflden  snow,  in  a 
country  the  greater  part  ui  which  was  ahsohitelv  unknown  to 
either  one  of  them.  But  it  was  the  sole  roniaininj,'  chance  for 
BaviriK  the  Uvea  of  their  friends  at  St.  Cloud  ;  and  they  faced  it 
togothcr,  hravely  and  silently. 

The  hill-side  ahove  the  gorge  was  steep  and  roc.xy,  hut  they 
mountiMl  it,  step  by  step,  in  dead  silence,  creeping'  up  under  the 
nhadowB  of  the  wild  olive-bushes  and  the  low  genista  scrub,  for 
fear  of  attracting  the  attention  of  the  Kabylea  oi)posite,  as  long, 
at  least,  as  they  remained  within  range  of  a  rillo  shot.  As  they 
toiled  on  and  up,  under  the  moonlit  sk  ,  the  air  til  each  level 
they  attained  grew  colder  and  colder.  Oiives  slowly  ,1,'iivo  way  to 
pine  and  cedar  ;  cedars  again  ceased  in  turn,  in  favour  of  low 
clunipa  of  wind-swept  juniper.  Meriem  drew  her  thin  white 
tobe  closer  and  closer  around  her.  She  was  chilled  by  the 
A^eezing  wind,  and  her  teeth  chattered.  *•  Here,"  liC  Marohant 
cried,  pulling  o'"'  his  own  upper  cloak — the  outer  Kubyle  garment 
— "  you  must  wrap  this  about  your  shoulders,  my  child ;  it's 
better  than  nothing." 

"No,  no,"  Meriem  answered,  holding  her  fuiik  ti?ht  in  her 
j-iumbed  fingers,  and  shaking  her  head  ;  *•  keep  it  yourself;  you 
i.ieed  it  more  than  I  do.  We  Kahyles  are  aocustoinoil  to  winter- 
cold.  We  go  about  barefoot,  even  when  the  snow  lies  deep  and 
chick  on  our  own  mountains." 

Le  Marc'.iant  wrapped  it  round  her,  in  spite  of  her  remons- 
trancefiu  wi^.h  an  imperious  gesture.  "  You  must  take  it,"  he 
■aid.  "  You're  the  less  warmly-clad  by  far  of  the  two.  Thank 
heaven,  I've  a  thick  English  jersey,  unchanged,  under  n»y  burn- 
ous. Besides,  what  we  want  is  for  both  tj  pull  through.  We 
mustn't  let  either  fail  on  the  summit." 

They  walked  on  quickly  over  the  intervening  ground,  mile 
after  mile,  up,  up — up  ever,  till  they  reached  the  snow  line  on 
the  high  Col  between  the  two  rearing  moonlit  mountains.  At 
its  edge,  Le  Marchant  sat  down  on  a  great  icu-worn  boulder, 
end  began  pulling  oil  his  boots  very  quietly. 

"What  are  yon  doing?  "  Meriem  asked,  repressing  a  shiver. 

"  Taking  ray  boots  oti","  Le  Marchant  answered,  as  if  to  observe 
a  gentleman  so  employed  were  the  most  natural  proceeding  in 
the  world. 

"  So  I  sen,"  Meriem  replied.     "But  what  for?  " 

She  knew  already  ;  but,  until  he  told  her,  natural  politeness 
ing^TPRted  it  would  he  rude  to  anticipate. 

"  You  must  put  them  on,"  Le   Marchant  answered  firmlj. 


:18 


THX   TINTB   OF   AHEM. 


landing  them  over  to  her.  **  You  can't  go  and  tramp  through 
ihe  snow  bare-foot.  They'll  be  a  deal  too  big  for  you,  but 
they're  better  than  nothing.  I  have  my  stockings.  We  shall 
both  be  protected  against  the  worst  of  the  cold  to  some  extent." 

Meriem  shook  her  head. 

"No,  no," she  said,  eagerly;  "I  can  never  wear  them.  I'm 
accustomed  to  go  bare-foot  often  in  the  snow.  You're  not.  My 
soles  are  hardened  to  it.  Besides,  they'd  slip  off  my  poor  little  feet 
like  anything." 

Le  Marchant  made  no  verbal  reply,  but  taking  out  the  handker- 
chief concealed  in  his  bosom,  he  tore  it  in  two,  and  bound  each 
half  tight  round  Meriem's  instep.  Meriem,  looking  on  in 
wonder,  allowed  him  to  do  it.  Next,  he  gathered  on  the  hillside 
a  few  handfuls  of  the  dry  Algerian  club-moss,  as  soft  as  tow,  and 
twining  it  close  around  the  two  rags  of  handkerchief,  thrust  hei 
feet,  thus  bound,  into  his  own  boots,  which  he  proceeded  to  lace 
up  in  solemn  silence,  in  spite  of  Meriem's  protests  and  exclama- 
tions. "  I  can  fill  my  socks  with  moss,"  he  went  on,  quietly, 
"  and  that'll  keep  the  warmth  of  my  feet  from  melting  the 
snow.  It's  freezing  to-night.  The  surface'!!  all  be  hard  and 
firm.    If  you  can  hold  out,  I  can  hold  out,  Meriem." 

Meriem's  eyes  were  dim  with  tears.  "  If  you  make  me  takt 
them,  I  can  go  on  all  night,  Eustace,"  she  said,  simply.  And 
she  took  his  hand  in  hers  with  a  friendly  pressure. 

The  Englishman's  eyes  moistened  also,  but  he  said  nothing. 
He  stuffed  his  socks  with  the  soft  moss,  and,  lifting  her  by  the 
hand,  raised  her  gently  from  the  ground,  in  the  unaccustomed 
foot-gear.  They  walked  on  through  the  snow,  thus  equipped, 
for  a  few  hundred  yards.  Then  Meriem  sat  down  on  the  crisp, 
hard  snow.  *•  Take  them  off,  Eustace,"  she  said,  faintly.  ♦'  I 
can  walk  better  without  them.  They  seem  to  clog  my  feet  so 
much.  I'm  not  accustomed  to  these  great  hard  things.  I'd  a 
thousand  times  rather  you  yourself  wore  them." 

Le  Marchant  saw  she  really  meant  it ;  the  unusual  weight 
Impeded  her  free  and  graceful  movements  ;  so  he  sat  down  by 
her  side  and  unlaced  the  clumsy  things  without  a  word.  •'  We 
can  exchange,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  he  had  finished.  *•  I'll  take 
the  boots,  and  you  the  stockings." 

"  Oh,  no,"  Meriem  cried.  ♦•  Never  mind  about  me.  I'm  ust^l 
:o  cold.  It  doesn't  matter.  If  we  go  on  walking,  it  wonthuri 
in«.  But  you  EngUsh  are  more  delicately  brought  up  than  w« 
ire." 

**  Jp  A  <unsii,"  EustAo*  anawered,  with  prompt  dttoiiion, "  out 


^m^ 


fHX    TKNTS   or    SUEM. 


&!» 


man  muni  b<>  rlirtiitor  and  onler  about  the  others.  Don't  answer 
me  l)ack.  Do  ms  you  are  bid,  Merieiu.  The  lives  of  the  people 
at  JSt.  Cloud  depend  upon  it. 

Meriem  knew  in  her  heart  he  spoke  the  truth. 

They  made  the  exchange  in  silence,  and  then  marched  on 
.icross  the  deep  soft  snow.  The  socks  kept  Meriem's  feet  warm  ; 
a  nest  of  club  moss  sufficed  for  Eustace.  The  snow  lay  flaky 
and  powdery,  as  it  often  lies  on  mountain  heights ;  and  the 
slight  Col  between  the  peaks  that  they  were  endeavouring  to  sur- 
mount rose  still  many  hundred  feet  above  them.  In  places  the 
drifts  covered  with  their  deceptively  even  sheet  great  hollows  and 
bowls  in  the  undclying  surface ;  in  places  their  feet  struck  sharp 
rocks  or  jagged  ends  of  ledges  an  hich  or  so  below  the  treacherous 
and  glistening  level.  As  long  as  the  moon  shone,  however,  all  still 
went  well ;  but  in  the  very  jaws  of  the  gap  between  the  two 
twin  mountains,  thio  clouds  began  to  drive  up  slowly  from  south- 
westward — an  ominous  quarter — and  flakes  to  fall  here  and 
there  in  their  faces  as  they  went,  at  long  intervals.  Gradually 
the  flakes  followed  faster  and  faster  ;  and  just  as  they  reached 
the  summit  level  of  the  Col,  a  perfect  storm  of  snow,  in  blinding 
masses,  beat  fiercely  against  them.  Meriem  was  weary  now  with 
much  tramping  through  the  drifts,  and  ill-clad  ctill  in  her  light 
iind  simple  Kabyle  garmonts.  blie  drew  her  haik  tighter  and 
tighter  yet  around  her,  and  battled  bravely  against  the  cutting 
blast  that  drove  wildly  in  her  face  ;  but  her  lips  were  blue  and 
iier  teeth  chattered  ;  and  Eustace  began  to  fear  in  his  soul  she 
would  never  get  through  to  descend  upon  the  warmer  side  of 
the  valley  towards  Bouira. 

At  last,  as  tlie  storm  drove  fiercer  in  their  faces,  she  sat  down 
exhausted  in  tlie  snow. 

••  Leave  me,  Eustace,"  she  said,  in  a  weary  voice,  like  a  child 
who  can  hardly»keep  its  eyes  open.  "  1  can  go  no  further.  For 
Vernon's  sake  and  Iri.s's,  go  on  without  me. 

To  sit  down,  wearied  out,  in  the  snow  to  rest,  is  to  freeze  to 
huith.  Le  Marchant's  heart  almost  failed  him  at  the  thought. 
[f  Meriem  was  sinking,  Meriem  was  doomed.  They  couia  do 
uothmg  but  Sit  down  lUeru  and  die  together. 


m 
Hi 


m 


m>i!'h-! 


'ijUi 


THX   TENTg  or   BHEll. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 


CIVILISED    SOCIETY.  .      " 

In  the  Fort  at  St.  Cloud,  IMadame  rAdmin'sfrntrice  had 
gathered  around  her  hospitable  board  for  the  niomuui  a  party 
which  might  almost  have  enabled  her  to  forget  Paris.  The  httle 
woman,  indeed,  was  in  high  spirits.  And  not  without  reason. 
On  her  right  hand  sat  an  eminent  dignitary  of  her  Church,  on  a 
pastoral  tour  through  his  extensive  Diocese.  On  her  left  sat 
that  distinguished  lii^ht  of  the  British  Bar, Mr.  Thomas  Kynners- 
ley  Whitmarsh,  Q.L'.,  pouring  forth  French  small -talk  in  his 
usual  glib  fashion  with  perfect  fluency  and  most  imperfect  gram- 
mar. The  officer  of  the  Genie,  ablaze  with  medals,  had  taken 
in  the  wife  of  the  neiglibouring  commandant — the  lady  whose 
husband  had  married  her  out  of  pure  depravity  ;  and  the  neigh- 
bouring commandant  had  returned  the  compliment  by  offering 
his  one  remaining  arm  to  the  [)lain  and  somewhat  faded  sister 
of  the  officer  of  the  Genie.  Iris  and  Vernon  Blake,  thus  linked 
by  mahce  prepense  of  Madame's,  sat  opposite  the  laft  couple  at 
their  good  friend's  board  ;  and  Mrs.  Knyvett  herself,  in  the  place 
of  honour,  forgetful  for  the  night  of  her  bronchial  troubles,  con- 
soled that  amiable  cypher,  M.  TAdministrateur,  with  congenial 
conversation  in  scrappy  fragments,  jerked  out  at  intervals  with 
the  purest  boarding-school  Parisian  accent. 

The  dinner  itself  was  a  monumental  triumph  of  Franco* 
African  cumm.  Nothing  like  it  had  ever  been  attempted  in 
Kabylie,  The  soup  would  have  done  honour  to  Vefour  or  Dig* 
non ;  the  fish  was  fresh-caught  grayling  from  the  snow-fed 
mountain  streams  of  the  great  Djarjum  ;  no  suspicion  of  garlio 
disgraced  the  sweetbreads;  no  faint  reminiscence  of  hiroine 
flavour  raised  doubts  (too  familiar  to  the  mind  of  the  Algerian 
bon-vivant)  as  to  the  possible  substitution  of  kid  for  lamb  in  the 
succulent  rati.  The  P>urgundy  hud  blushed  on  the  sunnv  Cote 
d'Or,  no  imitative  colonial  brand    from  the  slopes  of  Atlas;  the 


TB£   TKNT8   OF   8HJ£M. 


221 


olives  had  npened  on  Provencal  hills,  and  been  bottled  in  oil  and 
stuffed  with  anchovy  by  the  cunning  hands  of  Maille  of  Paris. 
Madame  I'Administratrice  herself  beamed  with  joy,  and  w'th 
Creme  de  Ninon.  Monseigneur  had  deigned  to  compliment  her 
on  her  hi  iitnetH  a  la  reine  ;  and  Monseigneur  was  well-known  to 
recoup  himself  for  his  Lenten  fast  in  due  season  by  making  the 
best  of  the  good  things  of  this  world  when  the  Church  permitted 
juch  occasional  relaxation. 

♦•.  A  id  who  would  say  we  were  lost  among  the  deepest  recesses 
of  the  African  mountains  ?  "  Monseigneur  ouserved  retlectivelv 
with  a  faint  sigh,  plunging  his  fork  as  he  spoke  into  his  tenth 
olive  Jarcie,  and  stroking  with  his  left  hand  that  long,  {lowing 
beard,  which  the  rules  of  the  Church  permit  to  add  so  much 
dignity  to  the  dress  and  appearance  of  the  missionary  clergy. 
"•  With  Madame's commissariat,  and  Madame's  liow'of  wit,  a  man 
of  the  world  would  iudge  himself  in  Paris." 

•'  For  ray  own  part,"  Uncle  Torn  remarked,  rollInL^  a  mouth- 
ful of  Burgundy  on  his  palate  with  obvious  approbation,  "  I  re- 
fuse to  believe  this  is  Africa  at  all.  Our  friends  here  have  made 
us  so  perfectly  comfortable,  and  so  perfectly  at  home,  that  I  shall 
be  quite  sorry,  I  declare,  when  the  time  comes  for  us  to  go  back 
to  the  shelter  of  my  dingy  club  in  dear  dirty  old  London." 

*•  And  yet,  on  y  est  tres  bien,  a  Londrea  am.si/'Monseigneiir  went 
on,  with  an  abstracted  eye,  his  mind  reverting  dreamily  to  certain 
pleasant  memories  of  English  hothouse  grapes,  Highland  grouse, 
the  giant  asparagus,  "  it  is  only  in  England,  aprea  umt,  that  a 
connoisseur  can  taste  the  wine  of  Oporto  in  its  full  perfection. 
But,  nevertheless,  we  are  here  in  Africa — decidedly  in  Africa. 
I  am  strong  on  that  point.  I  refuse  to  admit  the  contrary,  mon- 
sieur. My  Diocese  is  the  most  genuine  Africa  of  all — the  original 
Africa  of  the  original  Afri.  And  my  flock — the  Kal)\  les — for  are 
not  they  too  my  flock  ? — are  the  people  of  Masiniasa  and  Juba 
and  Jugurtha." 

"  Don't  you  think,  Monseigneur,  "  Iris  put  in  from  the  bottom 
of  the  table,  in  her  very  best  French,  though  not  without  timi- 
dity, •*  there's  a  great  deal  of  Vandal  blood  left  to  this  day  among 
the  Kab}  les  as  well '?  I  notice  so  many  of  them  have  blue  eyes 
and  fair  hair — some  of  the  children  have  even  light  blonde  com- 
plexions. This  must  surely  be  quite  Teutonic.  Belisarius  can  hardly 
have  exterminated  the  nortliern  invaders,  even  if  he  broke  down 
the  power  of  Gilimer  and  his  fellow-countrymen." 

Vernon  Blake  opened  his  eyes  wide  in  speechless  admiration 
At  the  intrepidity  of  tha  young  lady  who  could  thus  venture  to 


-22 


CHB    TENTS    OF    SUEM. 


approach  a  beanlod  French  prelate  with  historical  criticisms  in 
his  oAii  liujguagt!  ;  while  even  Monseiii^neur  himself,  who  had 
never  before  met  an  English  learned  lady  of  the  new  school, 
raised  his  eyebrows  by  degrees  in  mild  surprise  at  such  an  un- 
expected interpellation  on  such  a  matter.  But  the  old  priest 
was  too  po'  slied  a  gentleman  to  show  his  astonishment  overtly 
in  vi^ords  ;  he  merely  answered,  with  a  deferential  bow.  "  Made- 
moiselle is  doubtless  quite  right  in  principle  ;  such  fair  hair  and 
eyes  may  frequently  betray  a  Teutonic  origin.  Genseric  may, 
perhaps,  have  borne  his  share  in  the  total.  But  what  I  main- 
tain, especially,  is  that  my  flock  as  a  whole — for  I  consider  them 
mine,  though  most  of  them  unfortunately  still  remain  in  error — 
are  the  genuine  old  Romanised  provincials  of  Africa,  the  his- 
torical Christians  of  Airif^an  antiquity,  the  descendants  of  the 
race  ■which  gave  to  the  Church  Tertullian,  and  Cyprian,  and 
Augustine  oi  Hippo." 

"  They  are  certainly  most  European  in  face  and  feature,"  Iris 
answered,  with  that  eli'ort  wiucii  English  people  always  feel  in 
speaking  a  loreign  language,  "  If  one  dressed  them  differently, 
in  European  dress,  one  could  hardly  distinguish  them,  I  think, 
from  Itnlians  or  Spaniards." 

"  And  even  their  costume  itself,  which  seems  to  us  so  foreign," 
Vernon  Blake  ventured  to  remark,  but  in  his  own  tongue  (for  he 
had  got  here  on  ground  that  he  really  knew) ;  "why,  it's  almost 
precisely  the  old  Greek  dress,  as  one  gets  it  in  the  torsos.  You 
can  seo  in  the  sculptures  from  the  Parthenon  at  the  British 
Museum  exactly  the  same  arrangements  of  folds  and  dtapery  as 
those  of  the  Kabyle  women.  The  peculiar  straight  lines  of  the 
robe  as  it  falls  to  the  ground  are  absolutely  identical.  You  get 
them  again,  you  know,  in  Flaxman's  drawings.  The  fact  is, 
it's  just  the  Greek  dress,  the  old  universal  dress  of  simple  nations, 
surviving  in  Africa." 

Monseigneur  bowed  with  an  expression  of  the  intensest  in- 
terest and  appreciation.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  like  so  many  of  his 
countrymen,  he  understood  not  a  single  word  of  any  living 
language,  except  his  mother  tongue. 

••  But  to  revert  to  what  Mademoiselle  was  just  observing,"  he 
interposed,  placidly,  with  a  dexterous  shift  of  his  eyes  from  the 
painter  to  Iria  ;  ••  I  should  be  inclined  to  say  my  Kabyles  here 
are  merely  a  remnant  of  the  old  common  Mediterranean  popula- 
tion, essentially  similar  to  that  of  Greece  and  Italy  and  Spain 
and  the  Islands.  They're  Berbers  still,  and  still  unaltered. 
Selon  mni,  Mademoiselle,  invasions  never  very  greatly  alter  the 
underlying  character  of  a  population.     Prance  is  still  Gaul  in 


THX    TKNTS    OF    IHS1I« 


228 


s 

!*"'■ 


apite  of  everything.  The  esprit  Galois  is  with  as  yet.  It  il  the 
same  in  Africa.  The  Carthaginians,  the  Romans,  the  Vandals, 
the  Byzantines,  the  Saracens,  and  the  Arabs  have  all  oonquered 
the  old  Berber  coast  in  turn  ;  but  the  Kabyles  are  to-day,  in  spite 
of  that,  as  Berber  as  ever.  From  their  mountain  eyries  they  have 
looked  down  unhurt  upon  the  dwellers  in  the  plain  under  a  dozen 
dynasties.  Islam  itself  has  made  no  real  structural  change  in 
their  social  relations.  In  their  savage  Switzerland  these  free 
tribes  are  monogamist  still ;  they  are  domestic  still ;  their  women 
wear  no  veils  and  are  cooped  in  no  harems ;  tlie  open  old  Greek 
and  Roman  life  exists  among  these  peaceful  and  idyllic  moun- 
taineers as  fully  as  ever.  And  therefore,"  Monseigneur  went  on, 
warming  up  with  eiitlmsiasm,  and  forgetting  his  olive;  "  I  look 
forward  with  confideiu-e,  I  look  forward  with  hope,  to  the  time 
when  the  Kabyles  shiiM  once  more  be  gathered  as  a  body  into  the 
fold  of  the  Church  ;  when  an  African  cathedral  of  worthy  archi- 
tecture shall  rise  anew  above  the  ruins  of  Metropolitan  Carthage  ; 
when  a  new  Augustine  shall  adorn  our  Hippo,  when  a  new 
Monica  shall  grace  our  re-risen  Rusguuia,  when  a  new  Synesius 
will  go  forth  from  our  Cyrene  to  evan;;elise  the  black  races  of 
interior  Africa.  The  Arab,  believe  me,  will  retire  abashed  to  his 
native  deserts ;  the  Kabyle  will  return  a  willing  convert  to  the 
fold  of  Christendom." 

Monseigneur  paused  for  breath  one  second  in  that  oft-repeated 
l)eroration,  dehvered,  after  his  wont,  with  folded  palms,  ana  with 
something  of  his  noted  ecclesiastical  unction.  But  the  pause 
was  fatal  to  his  chance  of  the  house's  attiintion.  Madame 
I'Administratice,  leaning  forward  impatiently  for  an  opportunity 
to  interrupt  his  even  flow,  cut  in  at  the  break  with  her  flippant 
criticism. 

•'  Qnuvt  a  nioi,  Monsngneur,^'  she  said,  with  a  slight  toss  of  her 
well-dressed  coiffure^  "  I  perceive  none  of  these  differences  you 
so  eloquently  point  out  between  indigene  and  indigene.  After  the 
monkey,  the  animal  that  most  nearly  approaches  man  is  no 
doubt  the  Kabyle.  But  for  me,  a  pig  of  a  native  is  always  still 
a  pig  of  a  native.  The  Kabyles  may  be  as  vireek  and  as  Christian 
as  you  make  out,  but  why,  in  the  name  of  a  saint,  I  ask  you,  d( 
they  come  around  at  night  to  steal  my  spring  chickens,  and  then 
offer  them  calmly,  plucked  and  drawn,  next  morning,  for  threi 
francs  a  pair  at  uiy  own  door  to  my  own  cuisinieref" 

•' Madame,"  the  di:j:nitary  of  the  Church  responded,  in  hi 
blandest  accents,  wuh  tiiat  crusliing  politeness  which  mo- 
b'renchmen  know  how  to  eniMJoy  so  effectively  against  an  obtru 
s.\e  woman,  "  we  wiil  a.iinit  that  in  the  soiitarv  matter  of  SDriiik 


I^i 


TilK    TbM'a    UF    hHitJt. 


liiokens  the  Eabyle  morality  has  hardly  emerged  as  yet  above 

'le  ordinary  Christian  gipsy  level.    Even  in  France,  our  peasants, 

•e  know,  still  confuso  at  times  the  nwuin  and  tuum,  as  our  great 

idies  occasionally  confuse    their  Imsband    and  his   neighbour. 

Jitt  the  Kabyle,  nevertheless,  if  madame  will  permit  me  to  differ 

rom    lier  on  so   abstruse  a  subject,  to  which  she  has  no  doubt 

'evbted  no  small  share  of  her  distiii^niished  consideration — the 

Cabyle,  mademoiselle,  "and   he  turned  once  more  to  Iris,  "has 

tillliis  virtues,  distinctively  European.     He  is  no  nomad,  like 

he  Arab  ;  he  is  fixed,  stationary ,  and  open  therefore  to  the  first 

•  sjns  of  our  higher  civilisation,     /wi  un  mot,  il  tienta  la  rnaison 

le  is  industrious,  sober,  liabituated  to  labour.     He  is  a  weaver, 

I  potter,  a  jeweller,  a  metal-worker.      Our  Kabyle  accepted,  but 

,i(l  not  embrace,  Islam.     He  is  clothed  with  it  as  with   a  cloak, 

1  ider  which   he  keeps   intact,  to   this  day,   his  own  higher  and 

lobler  social  habits      He  has  the  idea  of  the  family,  the  respect 

or  woman.     Your  sex,  miidemoiselle,  retains  even    now  in  his 

lit  its  proper  position.     And  he  has,  above  all,  that  noble  senti- 

lent  01  the   soiil,  the  love  of  his  country  ;  he  is   a   pr  riot,  a 

v'arridr,  a  worthy  son  and  defender  of  his   fatherland.     It  was 

hat  elevated  sentiment  alone  which   induced  him  formerly,  to 

lake   common  cause    with    an    Arab   chief    like  Abd-el-Kader 

I  ;iiiiist  the  arms  of  our  generals  ;  it  was  that  sentiment  which 

I'ove  him,  with  ill-judged  zeal,  into  the  rebellion  of  El-Mokrani, 

1  the  vain  endeavour  to  shake  off  the  yoke  which  our  country- 

len  had  all  too  lightly  imposed  upon  him.     Our  task  at  present 

i  to  attach  this  high  and    beautiful   sentiment   of  the  soul  to 

Vance,  rather  than  to  Algeria  ;  to  give  the  Kabyle  also  a  share 

1  the  glories  of  the  French  arms  and  the  French  civilisation  ;  to 

■ach   him  how  to  merge  his  feelings  as  a  mere  provincial  of 

,frica  in  the  wider  consciousness " 

"  Great  heavens,"  cried  Iris,  interrupting  his  discourse,  and 
appiiig  both   her  hands  suddenly  to -her  ears,  ••what  was  tliat, 
Ir.  l31ake?     Just  close  outside  I     It  was  ever  so  near  I    Did  you 
I  ear  it  ?     A  pistol  shot  I  " 

Abd  even  as  she  spoke  a  wild  cry  from  without  burst  all  at 
:ice  upon  the  startled  table.  '*  Jehad!  Jeluui!  Dehabia  Kabijli  ! 
hahaUil  hlamt"  And  then  once  more  in  Fvenoh,  **  A  ba»  les 
'rumais  !  "  '       ■     ''-'  ■ 

^ionseigneur  bounded  from  his  seat  like  one  struck. 

''  A  revolt!  "  he  exclaimed  aloud,  walking  over  with  intrepid 
ilmu  '-;s   to  the  window.     '•  I  spoke  too  hastily.     The  Kabyles 

ive  nuen  1     They've  proclaimed  a  Jehad  I     They'r<3  massacring 
,iii3  garrison  I" 


■^: 


'V' 


j 


tun   liiAii-U  Ok    ttMAll. 


82.^ 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 


7 1 


,  •  THE    HOLY   WAB. 

This  itood  dpoGoJiless  with  horror  and  terror.  From  the  win- 
Jcw  of  the  dining-room,  whence  they  looked  upon  the  outer 
eourt  of  the  fort,  hIjo  could  see  a  turbulent  mass  of  angry  Kabyles, 
the  first  in  tiie  field,  drunk  by  this  time  with  fanaticism  and 
blood,  8ur),'iiig  wildly  against  the  bailey  gate  of  the  frail  little 
fortress.  The  vanguard  had  almost  succeeded  in  surprising  the 
place  ;  and  the  postern,  even  now,  was  kept  open  from  within, 
strongly  gtiardod,  to  give  refuge  to  the  panic-stricken  and  flying 
Colonists  from  the  outside  homes.  A  few  Zouaves,  hastily  sum- 
moned from  the  guard-room,  were  holding  at  bay  for  awhile  with 
fixed  bayonets  the  tumultuous  wave  of  frantic  insurgents.  A 
hum  as  of  a  beehivu  pervaded  the  place.  Men,  women,  and 
children,  pressing  their  way  between  escort  through  the  savage 
crowd  under  a  hot  fire,  were  running  the  gauntlet  for  the  har- 
bour of  refuge.  Hcreams,  yells,  and  bellowings,  like  those  of 
wild  beasts,  pursued  them  to  their  lair.  More  and  more  Kabyles 
surged  up  each  minute.  The  Pere  Baba,  in  his  white  burnous 
and  witli  his  long  grey  beard  all  spattered  with  mud,  came  rush- 
ing for  the  gate  with  two  children  in  his  arms.  Monseigneur, 
calm  and  courageous  in  the  midst  of  the  din,  recognised  the 
good  old  man,  and,  flinging  the  window  open  wide,  cheered  him 
with  his  voice  to  the  place  of  safety.  As  he  neared  the  gate,  a 
few  of  the  foromoHt  Kabyles,  recognised  their  friend,  refrained 
from  striking  him  ;  but  others,  shouting  aloud  "Jehad  I  Jehad  I" 
raised  their  daggers  angrily  in  mid  air  ;  and  one  shrieking  wretch 
/wrought  down  a  rusty  cutlass  on  the  good  priest's  shoulder, 
making  the  blood  spurt  out  over  the  brave  old  man's  white 
Kabyle  burnous. 

At  sight  of  the  blood,  Iris  cried  aloud  in  terror,  and  all  nut 
fainted,  Vernon  Blake  supported  her  in  his  arms  to  a  chair. 
There  she  sat  and  cowered,  with  her  face  in  her  hands,  white  as 
a  sheet,  and  hicapable  for  a  while  of  speech  or  motion. 

But  Madame  rAdminiHtratrico,  nothing  daunted  by  the  siglit, 
leaning   ihruuttiiiingly  out  of  tUe  oiqu.  window,   cried   aluud, 


1 


■« 


'  l!"','^  .,■•  ,Vi 


■^-r-^ 


226 


Tim    IILUTB   iiW    Sil£M. 


••  Cowarcia,  cowards  I  woulJ  you  strike  a  defenceless  olcl  man  and 
a  pair  of  poor  children  ?  Come  on  and  fi^'ht  ua,  caiuiUU  d'indi- 
yenes,  and  you'll  get  your  deserts,  as  you  did  in  1870."  And  she 
flung  the  dessert-knife  she  still  held  in  her  hand  insultingly  in 
their  faces,  with  a  whoop  of  challenge. 

The  hated  face  of  the  woman  with  high  heels  seemed  to  rouse 
the  excited  blood  of  the  angry  Kabyles  to  perfect  pitch  of  un- 
governable frenzy.  With  a  rush  they  dashed  at  the  open  gate 
once  more  ;  and  the  Zouaves,  just  hurrying  the  wounded  Pere 
Baba  within  the  walls,  were  compelled  next  moment  to  shut  the 
postern  in  the  face  of  the  last  few  flying  villagers.  As  tboy  did 
so,  the  Kabyles  hacked  to  pieces  before  their  eyes  a  terrified 
Frenchwoman,  who  had  fled  in  frantic  alarm  for  the  gate,  and 
then  tossed  her  head  contemptuously  from  a  pike  in  the  direction 
of  the  window.  A  bullet  came  whizzing  past  Madame's  ears  ; 
Madame  withdrew  her  face  rapidly  for  half  a  second  from  their 
sight,  then  put  it  out  again  like  a  saucy  street  child  that  she  was, 
with  her  tongue  in  her  cheek  and  her  eyes  rolling  wickedly. 

"  Cochons  I  "  she  cried  again,  imperturbable  still,  but  white 
with  rage.  **  Cochons !  CoQhons !  Sacres  cochona  dHndiijenes." 
And  she  stuck  out  her  tongue  at  them  in  savage  exultation. 

Monseigneur  pulled  her  gently  but  firmly  within. 

*'  Madame,"  he  said,  in  a  very  stem  voice,  placing  her  at  the 
furthest  end  of  the  disordered  room,  "it  is  not  thus  wo  shall 
teach  these  misguided  creatures  *",o. respect  our  cause.  Not  insult 
but  reason.  M.  I'Administrateur,  permit  them  to  open  the  gate 
for  me  one  moment.  I  will  go  out  as  I  am,  taking  my  life  in 
my  hand,  and  reason  with  these  poor  fanatical  people." 

M.  I'Administrateur  gazed  back  at  him  for  a  second  in  mild 
surprise.  He  was  too  practical  a  man  not  to  see  clearly  that  tl)Q 
moment  for  argument  had  gone  past  long  since,  and  that  an 
eminent  dignitary  of  the  Church  in  a  violet  robe  who  should 
venture  forth  to  still  their  passions  just  then  with  Christian  advice 
and  sweet  reasonableness  would  assume  the  unbecoming  form  of 
mincemeat  in  rather  less  than  half-a-dozen  seconds.  "  Mon- 
seigneur," he  answered,  politely  but  firmly,  "  you  cannot  possilily 
leave  the  Fort.  Every  man  within  it  will  be  sorely  needed  soon 
if  we're  to  hold  out  till  reinforcements  can  arrive  from  Algiers, 
Oastellane,  look  after  the  guns  and  the  mat^azine.  Raridon, 
hurry  up  the  reserve  from  the  barrack  /  Sabatone,  see  if  they've 
cut  the  telegraph  wires,  will  you  ?  " 

The  next  ten  minutes  were  a  crowded  time  of  manifolr^.  sensa- 
tion and  noi8«  and  motion,  during  which  Iris  was  congcioos  oulj 


f  1 


THX   TENTS   OV   8U£M. 


227 


?■'■ 


<fi 


J  f  continuous  firing  and  confused  uproar,  and  loud  occaBional 
reports  from  the  one  big  gun  of  the  tiny  battery.  When  she 
next  could  recognise  anything  with  distinct  perception,  she  saM 
that  the  window  was  now  closed  tight  with  an  iron  casemate,  that 
nil  the  men,  Vernon  BUike  included,  had  left  the  room,  that  a 
great  glare  pervaded  the  fort,  and  that  her  mother  and  their 
hostess  were  holding  her  up  between  them  in  their  arms,  and 
trying  to  comfort  her  with  tears  and  kisses, 
t^  *•  I  never  knew  I  was  such  a  coward  before,"  Iris  murmured, 
with  some  pallid  attempt  at  a  smile.  "I'm  afraid  I  should  never 
make  a  good  soldier," 

"  My  dear,"  Madame  answered,  with  a  sagacious  little  nod, 
"  we're  all  of  us  just  equal  cowards  in  our  hearts ;  only  we're  a 
great  deal  too  much  ashamed  to  confess  it.  But  this  time  the 
indiycnes  will  do  for  us  finally.  We're  all  dead  women.  They've 
cut  the  wires,  and  no  lielp  can  come.  Nothing  on  earth  can 
possibly  save  us.  We  must  make  up  our  minds  to  die  where 
we  stand.  For  my  part,"  and  the  little  woman  seized  another 
lessert  knife  viciously  in  her  fist,  "  I'm  not  going  to  die  without 
;i^icking  this,  hilt-deep,  into  the  breast  of  a  dog  of  a  Kabyle." 

"  We  must  make  up  our  minds  to  die  I  "  Iris  repeated,  all 
liorror-struck. 

.  '*  Yes,  my  dear,"  Madame  answered,  with  infinite  sang  froid. 
'  Thev'U  murder  us  ail !  Just  the  same  as  they  did  at  Palaestro 
n  1870." 

Iris,  unaccustomed  to  thus  dwelling  upon  the  fiery  verge  of  an 
active  volcano,  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  once  more  at  the  easy 
answer ;  but  Madame  I'Administratrice,  inured  to  danger,  went 
on  glibly  in  an  unconcerned  voice,  "  I've  looked  out  through  the 
peephole  in  the  casemate  of  the  window,  and  I  can  see  they're 
firing   the  houses  and  the  haystacks.     Old  Fourchault's  hay- 
stack's blazing  away  like  a  bonfire !  Ciel^  what  a  blaze  I  They're 
putting  torches  now  to  the  woodwork  of  the  school.     There  are 
voraen  and  children  in  there,  all  huddled  together,  who  came 
.)o  late  to  escape  into  the  Fort.     They'll  be  roasted  alive  in  the 
lOuse  pretty  soon,  unless  Hippolyte  can  get  up  a  sortie  to  recover 
Miem." 

♦*  But  who  are  the  men  who  are  doing  these  fearful  things  ?*' 
ria  cried  in  horror. 

"  Your  friends,  the  Beni-M^rzougfor  the  most  part."  Madanje 
iiiswered,   coolly  ;  "  they  and   the  Bttm-Yeahi  aad  the  Aith 
..lenguellath." 


TBS   TBNT8  or  8HSII. 


m 


"  The  Beni-Merzoug  I  "  Iris  exclaimed,  in  blank  dismay. 
"  Why,  surely  those  are  Meriem's  people." 

••  Parfaitementy  ma  chere"  Madame  responded,  cheerfully. 
"  And  I've  very  little  doubt  your  good  cousin  herself's  out  there, 
this  moment,  assisting  them  to  sot  fire  to  the  little  children  and 
old  women  in  the  school-house.  It  amuses  them,  that — to  burn 
alive  little  children  and  poor  helpless  old  women  !  " 

A  blank  silence  reigned  for  some  minutes,  while  Iris  cowered 
and  crouched  half  fainting  once  more  in  the  corner.  She,  the 
Third  Classic,  the  indomitable  reasoner,  so  resolute  and  deter- 
mined in  every  moral  crisis,  was  a  physical  coward  of  the  feeblest 
in  an  emergency  like  this.  Even  Mrs.  Knyvett  herself,  she 
observed  to  her  surprise,  was  far  more  composed  ;  while  Madame 
I'Administratrice,  that  weak  little  creature,  rising  with  true 
Parisian  buoyancy  to  the  height  of  the  occasion,  kept  her  eye 
fixed  from  time  to  time  on  the  peephole  in  the  crsst  mate,  unde- 
terred by  the  rifle  bullets  that  rattled  continually  against  its 
resounding  surface,  and  went  on  with  a  running  comment,  un- 
disturbed, on  the  history  of  the  insurrection. 

••  They're  making  a  sortie  I "  she  cried  at  last,  witli  volatile 
animation,  withdrawing  her  face  for  a  moment  from  the  well- 
guarded  look-out.  •'  My  husband  has  organised  a  party  of 
Zouaves,      Well    done,     Hippolyte  I     Well     done,    Rabaterie  I 

They've  opened  the  gates  and  sallied  out  in  good  order 

Monseigneur's  with  them,  and  ^Ir.  Blake  too Monseign- 

eur's  holding  up  two  fingers  to  the  rebels The  staircase 

ia  burn't  down,  and  the  women  and  children  are  being  fired  at 
in  a  mass  by  tlie  cochom  dHndipenes.  ,  .  .  The  fir©  grows  heavier 
and  heavier  each  moment.  The  rescue  party's  fought  it's  way 
througli  to  the  door  now.     Well  done,  agam,  Hippoij  te  I     I  can 

see  it  all  plainly  by  the  light  of  the  haystacks They're 

putting  up  a  ladder  to  the  window  for  the  women  to  escape. 
There's  Julie  Augier  on  the  ladder  now  coming  down  like  a 

bundle She's  safe  I  she's  safe  I    They've  caught  her  and 

held  her  I  Monseigneur's  caught  her;  ce  brave  Monseigeur! 
Pierre  Forstemann  the  Alsatian's  up  there,  too,  with  his  rifle, 
picking  off  the  Kabyles  cooly  as  they  approach  the  ring  ;  he's  a 
splendid  shot,  Pierre  ;  he'll  bowl  them  over.  .  .  .  Mr.  Blake's 
on  the  ladder  now,  handing  down  the  children.  ,  .  .  They're 
firing  at  him  I  think  ;  I  can  see  a  Kabyle  dog  just  pointing  his 
rifle.  Ha  I  yes.  Quel  dommage  I  He's  hit  him  on  tho  arm ! 
He's  pinked  his  man.     He's  badly  hurt.     The  arm's  bleedrng  1 " 

*'  Hit  whom  ?  "  Iris  cried,  in  an  agony  of  suspenst. 


■v-iArTii.. 


TUS    TENTS   or   gBKM. 


229 


!'■ 


"  Mr.  Blake,"  Madnme  answered,  lier  blood  nil  afire  with  the 
excitement  of  the  sctMie.  *'  Ikit  n'linpnrte  I  Our  iniri  have  cov- 
ered hira  well ;  they're  bringing  hira  back.  Tliese  savages 
shan't  have  his  body.  The  women  and  children  are  all  Siife,  too. 
}31ake  was  handing  down  a  little  girl — the  very  last  loft — when  a 
bullet  struck  him  on  the  left  fore-arm.  Well  thrust,  nnm  cuporal, 
Well  thrust,  in(lee4  I  Tliey'Jl  ha,ve  }uw  under  yovoj:  in  the  gate- 
way shortly." 

"Let  me  go  I  "  Iria  cried,  rising  white  and  \vin,  "  let  mo  go 
and  take  care  of  hira.  Is  he  dan^^'erously  wounded,  do  you 
think  ?     Oh,  IMadame  is  he  dangerously  woumhui  I  " 

"  The  roof's  falling  in  now,"  Madame  wtuit  on,  unmoved. 
•*  The  fire  has  caught  it.  Ciel  I  what  a  grand  si,:,'ht  I  I  can  see 
the  flames  bursting  up  like  red  tongues  throng ii  the  broken  cre- 
vices. What  a  magnificent  thing  I  lied  jets  ul  (ire  shuot  from 
the  interior  1  I  wish  I  was  a  man  I  I  wish  I  was  a  sokUer  I  I 
should  like  to  go  and  have  a  shot  at  these  savages  I " 

"  Have  they  got  Mr.  Blake  back  yet  ?  "  Iris  asked  in  profound 
anxiety. 

"  They're  fighting  their  way  back  in  a  hollow  square," 
Madame  answered,  all  agog.  "  Hand-to-hand  fight.  CUorious 
— magnificent.  The  Zouaves  outside,  the  women  and  children 
and  wounded  in  the  centre  of  the  square.  Man  IHcn,  it's  splen- 
did ;  but  oh,  what  hot  work  I  "  She  gave  a  little  scream. 
"They've  wounded  the  som- lieutenant !  But,  inon  Hieu,  how 
they  fight  1  1  never  saw  anything  finer  in  my  life.  The  Kabyles 
are  pouring  in  upon  them  on  every  side  like  ants  from  an  an||ir 
hill.  The  Zouaves  are  pushing  them  back — thrust,  thrust, 
thrust — with  fixed  bayonets,  and  firing  from  the  second  rank 
inside  upon  those  frightful  creatures.  And  the  blood  !  oh,  the 
blood  1     Ma  chere,  its  flowing  I     Qiuil  bruit,  quel  <'on-niije  I     Out? 

can  see  the  blood  red  by  the  glare  of  the  haystacks They're 

close  by  the  gate  now  ;  Sabaterie's  leading  them,     llippolyte's 

waving  his  sabre  in  the  air. They've  opened  the  gates  to 

these  brave  folk,  and  they're  taking  in  the  wounded.  Lange  is 
firing  among  the  savages  with  the  great  gun  I  Morhleu  I  What 
blood  I  Fire  flashes  from  every  bush  and  rock.  Que  e'eat 
affreux  I     Que  c'est  magnijitjue  .'" 

*'  And  Mr.  Blake  ?  "  Iris  asked,  too  terrified  now  to  make  any 
pretence  at  cloaking  her  special  interest  in  that  one  non-com- 
batant. 

"  Mr.  Blake's  inside  the  wall  all  safe,  and  Hippolytp's  shaking 
bis  sabre  hi  their  faces,  insulting  those  wretches  before  he  closes 


■Jif,!WfW' 


:i  ;) 


TliJt    TJCNTH   0>    HUKM. 


•^' 


.iic  gnt'  foreror  upon  tl'fTii.  \Ttil  done.  P'  "olyte!  (^r,it  bien 
,<nt,  muii  enjunt.  1  never  ;uluiired  iii\  liu.i.iaiui  .  lu  ;  but 
to-night  voyez  vtms — what  a  chance  I  what  a  chai^^o  i  I  could 
lay  down  my  Ufe  for  him." 

In  two  minutes  more  that  disordered  dininj,'-room  was  filled 
ii fresh  with  pale  women  and  children,  too  terrified  even  to  cry, 
cuid  men  with  blooding  arms  to  be  stanched  and  bandaged. 
Madame  rAdministr;ilice,  well  used  to  such  work,  turned  aside 
instantly  to  tear  up  hnen  rag  into  long  strips,  and  to  encour- 
age and  tend  these  brave  defenders.  Finger-glasses  supplied 
water  to  stanch  open  wounds,  and  dinner  napkins  were 
hastily  turned  by  deft  hands  into  impromptu  tourniquets.  Iris, 
now  partially  recovered  from  hor  first  wild  scare,  collected  her 
thoughts  to  put  in  practice  on  Vernon  Blake'a  cut  and  bleeding 
arm  the  loasons  she  had  learned  at  her  Cambridge  ambulance 
classes,  Ajid  without,  the  noise  grew  ever  louder  and  fiercer, 
and  the  glare  broK'e  stronger  with  a  more  lurid  light  through  the 
i-reakiiig  cracks  of  the  iron  casomnte. 

In  half-an-hour  a  Zouave,  all  grimy  with  smoke  nnd  blood  and 
powder,  came  up  from  below  with  an  urgent  messit  o. 

•*  Monsieur  desires  me  to  tell  Madame,"  he  saiu,  not  forget- 
ting his  military  salute  even  at  that  moment  of  danger,  "  that 
we  have  ammunition  enough  to  resist  for  three  days,  and  that  in 
iiny  case  we  can  hold  out  till  to-morrow  morning.  If  a  rescue 
arrives,  all  will  be  well.  He  will  send  a  messenger  out  to  Tizi- 
' )uzou." 

Hl^*'  The  messenger  will  never  get  there,"  Madame  answered, 
vith  a  shrill  little  laugh  of  despair.  ••  Ile'U  be  cut  into  a  thou- 
>and  very  small  pieces  before  he  can  break  through  the  line  of 
iieni-Merzoug.  But  never  mind.  11  we  die,  we'll  have  killed 
three  times  ourselves  in  Kabyles  1  *\ 


of  V. 


■.\ 


TBB  T£NT8  OF  Hlll^Jd. 


381 


CHAPTER  XXTVL 


DB8PAIR. 


But  nlonc,  on  the  summit  of  the  Col,  beneath  the  steep  slopes 
of  Vjullft  Khadidja,  Eustace  Le  Marchaut,  knelt  in  agony  on  the 
crinp,  smooth  snow,  beside  half-lilel«;ss  Meiiem,  giving  up  all  for 
loHt,  both  there  and  at  St.  Cloud,  in  his  utter  helplessness.  A 
mile  or  two  of  snow  still  remained  to  be  traversed  before  they 
tould  reach  thu  beginning  of  bare  ground  once  more  on  the 
downward  slope;  and  Mi'nem,  in  her  present  state  of  collapse, 
wuH  wholly  unlit  to  continue  a  hundred  yards  further. 

Tlio  cold  was  intense  and  the  wind  blew  through  him. 

If  <<nly  he  could  carry  her!  But  the  idea  was  impracticable, 
lie  had  walked  too  far.  His  strength  was  used  up.  They  must  both 
uit  down  and  die  together. 

And  yet,  how  easy  the  slope  looked  I  A  smooth  descent  down 
a  long  and  even  snow-clad  valley.  No  glaciers  here,  as  in  the 
Ilij^h  Alps;  no  peaks  or  snow  bridges;  no  probing  with  the  axe 
or  cutting  steps  in  ice,  no  moraines  or  precipices;  no  boulders; 
or  crorasses;  nothing  but  one  long  level  slope  of  snowbank.  It 
looked  as  easy  as  those  great  drifts  he  had  often  slid  down  on  a 
toboggan  at  Quebec  the  year  he  was  working  upon  the  Coleo^tera 
of  Canada, 

And  then,  with  a  flush  of  inspiration,  the  idea  seized  him — 
Why  not  slide  down,  with  Meriem  in  his  arms — if  only  he  could 
lltid  something  solid  to  slide  upon? 

Hut  what?  The  very  hope  seemed  to  mock  his  despair.  Not 
a  Htlck  or  a  stone  lay  about  anywhere.  Nothing  but  snow,  snow, 
Htiow,  all  round.  And  the  pitiless  flakes  still  fell  over  them  as 
they  sat,  and  covered  Meriem's  dress  with  their  cold  white 
crvHtals. 

lie  was  kneeling,  but  on  what?  Not  on  the  fresh-fallen  snow. 
JIo  sank  into  that  for  full  an  inch,  and  then  supported  himself 
on  u  hard  crust  beneath.  He  knew  well  what  the  hard  crust 
meant.  A  thin  layer  of  ice  had  frozen  on  top  of  the  older  snow. 
A  Ujer  solid  enough  and  firm  enough  to  support  him. 


m 


its  tJC^tl  UM  tiHtik. 


When  snow  falls  and  lies  long  in  a  cold  climate  or  on  h\gk 
mountains,  the  heat  of  the  sun  often  melts  the  surface  on  warm 
rlays,  and  Lhti  melted  top  then  freezes  hard  at  ni^ht,  forming  a 
lort  of  crust  or  semi-solid  layer,  which  caps  the  soft  and  powdery 
under  stratum.  On  such  a  crust  Le  Marchant  was  krieeling. 
His  heart  gave  a  bound  as  he  seemed  to  feel  its  value  tj  bim  in 
this  last  extremity. 

"  Lend  me  your  knife,  Meriem,"  he  said  suddenly. 

"  What  for  ?"  Meriem  cried,  roused  to  horror  at  the  demand. 
'•  You  don't  want  to  do  youreelf  any  harm,  do  you,  Eustace  ?" 

"  No,"  Eustace  answered,  holding  her  tight  for  warmth 
against  his  own  breast.  "  I  only  want  to  cut  some  ice.  I'll 
show  you  why  soon,  Meriem." 

Meriem  took  from  her  girdle  the  little  ornamental  dagger,  Mk 
with  knobs  of  coral  and  lapis  lazuli,  that  all  unmarried  KabyU 
girls  wear  by  their  side,  and  handed  it  without  a  word,  in  her 
numbed  fingers,  to  her  eager  companion.  A  sudden  thought 
seemed  to  strike  her  as  she  lay. 

"  If  I  die  here,  Eustace,"  she  cried  with  energy,  '•  and  you 
have  strength  to  go  on  upon  your  way  to  Bouira,  will  you 
promise  me  to  take  the  charm  from  my  neck  and  throw  it  in  a 
fire,  without  ever  opening  it  ?" 

"  You  will  not  die,  Meriem,"  Eustace  answered  firmly.  '•  Or, 
if  you  do,  I  will  die  here  beside  you." 

**  But  promise  me,  at  any  rate,"  Meriem  gasped  out,  shivering. 

•'  I'll  promise  you  anything,  Meriem,"  the  Englishman 
answered,  pressing  her  hand  hard.  "And  if  I  die  with  you 
here,  I  shall  die  happy." 

*•  Thank  you,"  Meriem  said.  "  You  are  very  good,  Eustace. 
I  told  you  before,  I  love  you  as  I  love  no  one  else  on  earth  but 
Vernon." 

Eustace  took  the  knife  and  proceeded  to  cut  out  with  it  a  large 
square  or  oblong  cake  of  the  under  surface — the  icy  layer — some 
seven  or  eight  foot  long,  and  broad  in  proportion.  Then  he 
shovelled  away  the  upper  snow  cautiously  with  his  arms,  and 
drew  it  out  with  care  on  the  freshly  fallen  surface.  If  it  broke, 
tliey  were  lost ;  but  if  only  he  could  manage  to  seat  Meriem 
accurately  in  the  very  middle,  and  push  it  before  him  with  hands 
or  feet,  it  would  go  like  a  toboggan,  he  fondly  fancied,  down  those 
smooth  sloptt"" 

It  was  a  forlorn  hope  ;  that  last  straw  to  which  a  drowning 
man  proverbially  clings,  but,  alas  for  Eustace,  it  was  insane, 
impracticable.     As  he  lifted  Meriem  and  placed  her  on  the  frail 


THK    TENTS   OF   BHEM. 


238 


% 


seat,  the  ice  shattered  at  once  into  a  thousand  ft'agments.  lie 
wondered  at  his  own  insensate  folly  in  hoping  it  would  bear  her. 
That  ice  go  down  a  whole  mountain  side  I  Why,  it  splintered 
at  a  touch.     Ridiculous  1     Impossible  I 

fie  sat  down  on  the  snow  once  more  in  despair.  ••  If  we  only 
had  some  wine  1"  he  said.     "  Some  brandy  I  Anj^thing  !" 

Meriem  opened  her  eyes  at  the  sound,  and  answered  feebly, 
with  a  flash  of  remembrance,  "  Your  flask  is  at  my  girdle.  I 
forgot  it  till  now.  I  snatched  it  up  as  we  were  leaving  the  tent. 
There's  something  in  it.     I  thought  you  might  want  it." 

With  a  wild  cry  of  joy,  Le  Marchant  seized  the  bottle  eagerly 
from  her  side,  and  unscrewed  the  top  with  numbed  white  fingers. 
It  was  whiskey,  neat,  and  happily  more  than  half  full.  *•  Thank 
God,"  he  cried,  "  we're  saved,  Meriem,"  and  he  poured  out  a 
wineglassfal  into  the  cup  beneath,  tempering  the  raw  spirit  with 
a  handful  of  snow  that  melted  in  it  instantly.  •'  Here,  drink 
this  ofif,"  he  went  on,  holding  it  to  her  blue  lips ;  •'  it'll  give  us 
both  strength  to  go  on  to  Bouira." 

••Is  it  wine  ?"  Meriem  asked.  "I  never  tasted  any.  You  know 
we're  not  aUowed  to  drink  wine,  we  Moslems." 

••No,  it's  not  wine  I"  Le  Marchant  answered,  firmly.  ••  And 
you're  not  a  Moslem  I  And  whether  you  like  or  not,  you  must 
drink  it  instantly  I  " 

Meriem  drank  it  off  without  further  parley,  "  Why  it  warms 
nne  at  once,"  she  cried,  in  surprise.  •'  I  never  in  my  life  fell 
anything  like  it." 

Le  Marchant  tossed  down  a  draught  himself.  ••  Now,  we'U 
wait  five  minutes  for  that  to  take  effect,"  he  said,  with  fresh 
hope ;  ••  and  then,  as  soon  as  it's  begun  to  strengthen  us,  if  I 
have  to  carry  you  down  the  whole  way  in  my  arms,  we'U  go  on, 
Meriem." 

But  in  a  fev  n^Jnntes,  Meriem,  summoning  up  all  her  courage, 
and  refreshed  by  the  stimulant,  was  ready  once  more  to  start  off 
walking  again  with  a  spasmodic  effort. 

The  downward  slope  was  far  easier  than  the  upward  one. 
Sometimes  by  sliding,  sometimes  by  a  glissade,  and  sometimes  by 
trudging  slowly  to  the  point  where  the  snow  cea  ed  on  the  moun- 
l>'  n.  Already  the  exercise  and  the  higher  temperature  made 
Meriem  warmer.  As  they  reached  the  last  edge  of  the  deep 
(snow,  she  said,  with  a  fresh  access  of  feverish  energy, 

•*  I  can  walk  on  now  to  the  bottom,  Eua'-iee." 

On,  and  •ver  on,  they  tramped  accordingly,  in  the  early  morn- 
ing, tha  dawn  just  beginning  to  whi^^^n  the  east  in  the  direction 


IIIHiHHiiilMiini 


ififfii 


284 


THB    TKNTI    Of    IHXM. 


of  the  iron  line  they  could  now  see  dimly  below  them  in  the 
gorge  of  the  river.  Meriem  had  never  set  eyes  on  a  railway 
before,  but  she  was  the  first  to  make  it  out,  with  its  rigid  curve, 
and  she  guessed  what  it  meant. 

•♦  The  iron  road,"  she  cried,  for  she  had  forgotten  the  Enghsh 
name  that  Eustace  called  it."  "  We  haven't  so  far  to  go  now. 
I  can  hold  out  still,  if  I  drop  when  I  get  there." 

It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  w4ien  they  reached  the  gorge 
itself,  and  stood  by  the  side  of  the  single  line  of  railway.  East- 
ward, the  next  station  was  not  in  sight ;  but  westward,  beyond 
the  river,  they  had  descried  from  the  heights,  houses  and  a 
steeple.  That  must  be  Beni-Mansour  Station,  Eustace  thought, 
from  the  lie  of  the  country.  They  turned  their  weary  feet  in 
that  direction,  walking  along  the  line,  and  treading  on  the  ties  ; 
if  only  they  could  once  reach  a  station,  they  could  telegraph  on 
for  aid  in  all  directions. 

A  hundred  yards  further  on  they  came  to  a  bridge.  It  was  an 
iron  girder  bridge,  thrown  boldly  across  the  river  from  bank  to 
bank  of  the  wide  gorge.  But  there  was  no  footway.  The  rails 
ran  along  skeleton- wise  upon  sleepers  and  ties;  the  work  bc.ieath 
was  open  trestle-work  of  the  American  type.  Meriem  looked 
alonj:  at  it  with  doubt  and  hasitntion.  *'  It's  hardly  a  kilometre 
to  the  station,"  she  said,  shrinking  back.  *'  But,  Eustace,  I 
ilaren't  cross  that  thing  now.  If  it  were  up  in  the  mountains, 
and  I  were  fresh  and  strong,  perhaps  I  might  venture  ;  but  I'm 
so  very  weak  and  giddy  with  fatigue  and  hunger  I  Leave  me 
here,  leave  me  here  for  a  while,  and  send  people  back  to  me  from 
the  village  with  food.  I  shall  be  quite  safe  where  I  am,  you 
know.     I  shall  sit  by  the  roadside,  and  nothing  will  hurt  mo." 

Le  Marchant  considered  seriously  lor  a  moment  with  himself. 
She  was  certainly  in  a  very  weak  and  faint  condition.  It 
required  nerve  and  strength  to  cross  that  bridge.  He  hardly 
cared  even  to  face  the  task  himself.  Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  ho 
didn't  Hke  to  leave  Meriem  alone  and  unprotoetod  by  the  open 
roadside.  He  rellected,  however,  that  Kabyle  maidens  are  gener- 
ally very  well  able  to  take  care  of  themselves  ;  and  also,  whiclj 
was  perhaps  a  great  deal  more  to  the  point,  that  nobody  was 
likely  to  he  passing  at  that  early  hour  <lo\vn  an  uninhabited 
i4orire.  along  a  lonely  railway  line.  As  the  outcome  of  which 
deliberation,  he  decided  at  last  it  would  be  host  to  leave  Meriem 
by  herself  lor  the  time  being,  and  hurry  un,  for  hor  sake  as  well 
as  for  the  sake  of  the  besieged   at   iSt.  Cloud,  to  the  n»»rv;H 


THB    TENTS   OF    SBEM. 


23? 


village.  The  sooner  he  could  get  there,  the  sooner  she  would 
have  food,  warmth,  and  shelter.  Though  it  looked,  perhaps,  a 
little  cruel  and  unchivalrous  to  leave  her,  it  was  the  truest 
chivalry  and  kindness  in  the  end — the  only  way  to  procure  her 
all  tliat  she  needed. 

•'  Very  well,  Meriem,"  he  said,  with  regretful  decision.  ♦'  Sit 
here  by  the  side ;  I  won't  be  long.  I  shall  come  back  to  you 
r-'oon  with  food  and  clothing."  Then  a  suflderi  idea  struck  him 
as  he  turned  to  go.  *•  You  must  take  caro  of  the  engine."  he 
said,  in  a  warning  voice  ;  '•  you  know  what  that  is — the  great 
iron  horse  that  comes  puffing  and  snorting  along  the  rails.  II' 
it  passes  by  while  you're  here,  don't  go  on  the  hne,  or  it'll  run 
you  down  and  crush  you  to  atoms.  Better  not  stir  at  all  froiii 
the  spot.  Sit  where  you  are  by  the  side  till  I  return;  don'i 
move  hand  or  foot,  for  fear  of  danger." 

Meriem  nodded  her  weary  head  in  assent,  and  took  his  hand 
in  her  own,  dreamily.  She  raise  1  it  to  her  mouth,  and  printed 
a  kiss  upon  it.  Eustace  stooped  down  and  kissed  her  forehead 
in  return.  "  Good-bye,  Meriem,"  he  said,  *'  I  shall  soon  be 
back.     Good-bye  my  child,  and  take  care  of  the  engine." 

And  he  turned  to  make  his  way  across  that  dangerous  bridge, 
with  &  wave  of  bis  hand  towards  the  half-fainting  Kabyle  girl. 


'I^A 


*HK   Ti;Nrs    Ml     -ilEjH, 


L  X..., 


.    .  .il. 


PEAU.. 


Fhb  bridge  proved  harder  by  far  to  pass  than  Enstace  had  at 

i  at  first  anticipated.  }'  ^vas  one  of  those  spider-hke  trestle 
Liuctures  with  which  Tra  ;  tic  Engineers  have  made  us  so 

amihar  ;  and  its  hghtness  a  airiness  were  in  American  ex- 
Lieines.  The  ties  stood  open  rucher  far  apart ;  the  gorge  below 
vuwned  deep  and  rock-bonnd  ;  and  the  distance  bridged  seemed 
out  of  all  proportion  to  the  actual  size  of  the  torrent-stream, 
owing  to  the  immense  width  and  abrupt  descent  of  the  chaam- 
like  valley.  At  every  step  along  those  open  sleepers  the  English- 
man's knees  trembled  under  him.  He  dared  not  look  down  at  the 
abyss  below ;  he  dared  not  look  back  at  poor  weary  Meriem,  for  fear 
he  should  grow  giddy  and  Ijse  b  dance  entirely.  He  could  only 
walk  on — walk  on  mechanically,  planting  one  foot  after  another 
on  the  uncertain  ties,  and  steadying  himself  as  best  he  might 
with  his  arms  spread  out  like  an  acrobat  or  a  rope-dancer. 

It  would  have  been  a  ticklish  task  even  at  the  best  of  times. 
With  his  numbed  and  weary  limbs,  after  that  long  tramp,  it  was 
almost  too  much  for  him.  He  had  got  half-way  over,  however, 
in  safety,  when  a  strange,  dull  noise  vibrating  along  the  metals 
underfoot  made  him  si  an  and  listen  with  vivid  eagerness. 
Hark  !  what  was  that?  The  rails  seemed  to  thrill  with  an  in- 
definite hum.  A  moment's  suspense  I  Then  he  heard  a  voice 
calling  to  him  aloud  from  the  further  bank. 

••  Eustace,  Eustace  !  "•  the  vo'»e 'cried  in  agony.  "  It's  com- 
ing (     It's  coming  !  " 

He  knew  what  that  meant.  He  recognised  his  peril.  It  was 
Meriem  crying  aloud  to  warn  liim  of  his  danger.  With  a  thump 
of  the  heart  he  took  it  all  in. 

The  morning  train  from  Setif  to  Palaestro ! 

Oh  God  1 — Oh,  God  t  it  was  rushing  down  upon  him  resist- 
lessly  I  ^ 


TUS    TENTg   OF    BUKM. 


287 


There  was  no  time  to  think  or  plan  escape  now.  No  place  to 
turn  aside,  to  right  or  to  left.  Only  the  line  itself,  and  the 
river  beneath.  He  could  hear  the  wild  dash  of  the  engine  as  it 
came  roaring  and  thundering  down  that  steep  incline  to  the 
mountain  river.  He  could  hear  the  rattle  and  ring  of  the  rails 
as  they  grated  under  tliQ  wheels.  The  brake  was  pressed  hard. 
It  thrilled  and  resounded  along  the  trestles  of  the  bridge.  He 
realised  the  deadly  peril  in  which  he  stood.  But  for  one  thing 
he  was  grateful.  Thank  heaven,  he  hadn't  tried  to  take  Meriem 
over  with  him  1 

Meriem,  at  least,  was  safe  from  peril. 

His  first  thought  was  to  make  a  wild  dash  for  it,  and  try  to 
get  to  the  other  end  of  the  long  bridge  before  that  rushing  engine 
could  reach  and  overtake  him.  But  one  second  sufficed  to  shew 
him  how  mad  and  hopeless  was  that  wild  plan  ;  how  impossible 
the  chance  of  getting  across  before  the  engine  bore  him  down. 
Only  one  bid  for  life  yet  remained — for  Meriem's  sake,  and  the 
besieged  in  the  mountains.  Like  a  flash,  the  solution  occurred 
to  his  quick  mind.  He  must  lower  himself  on  his  hands  in  the 
gap  between  the  ties,  hang  on  by  his  fingers  as  one  hangs  to  a 
trapeze,  and  let  the  eaigine  and  train  pass  bodily  over  him. 

It  was  a  bold  idea,  yet  not  wholly  impracticable.  F'or  as  soon  as 
it  had  passed,  he  could  raise  himself  up  again  on  Uis  elbows,  like 
a  gymnast,  and  continue  his  journey  to  the  nearest  station.  But 
for  the  moment,  dear  life  was  all  he  thought  about. 

Quick  as  thought,  he  lowered  himself  on  his  hands  as  steadily 
as  he  could  manage,  and  placing  one  foot  against  an  angle  of  the 
iron  trestle-work  at  the  side — the  ro.l  attaclimonts  were  too  thick 
and  too  big  to  climb  by — clung  with  hooked  fingers  to  the  sleeper 
above  in  speechless  suspense  and  quivering  expectation.  How 
long  he  might  have  to  wait  there  he  had  no  conception.  But  he 
waited  for  ages.  Hours,  days,  years,  seemed  to  pass  slowly 
before  that  rusliing  engine,  at  full  speed,  rolled  over  his  head 
with  its  rattling  burden.  There  he  iiung,  inert,  between  earth 
and  sky,  with  one  foot  just  poised  against  the  elbow  of  the  trestle- 
work,  and  the  other  dangling  loose  in  empty  space,  and  heard 
the  great  iron  horse  dash  pufiing  and  panting  across  the  long 
line  of  iron  girders,  in  slow  haste  to  destroy  him.  Would  he 
have  nerve  to  cling  on  when  once  it  got  fairly  overhead,  he  won- 
dered ?  He  hardly  dared  to  hope  it,  his  hands  quivered  and 
shook  so  much  already.  The  mure  physical  jar  and  concussion 
as  the  train  passed  by  would  perhaps  sulRce  to  loof^en  and  shake 


off  bis  tremulous  fin-^era. 


Fatigue 


and  hunger  had  unnerved 


\\ 


288 


THE   TENTS   OF   SHEM. 


him  already :  the  ordeal  was  a  harder  one  than  his  exhausted 
frame  was  then  and  tliere  prepared  to  go  through. 

But  Meriem  at  least  was  safe  upon  the  bank  !  Thank  Heaven 
for  that.  Pie  had  not  fooliohly  and  thoughtlessly  imperilled 
Meriem. 

Jar,  jar,  jar;  how  the  girders  rocked  !  The  train  was  coming.' 
rolling  and  rattling  on.  It  approached,  it  approached  ;  nearer, 
nearer,  nearer.  He  saw  the  lumbering  engine  pass  slowly  over- 
head. The  boiler  went  over  him,  grate,  grate,  grate.  The 
funnel  puffed  and  steamed  and  snorted.  The  fire  glowed  red 
above  his  face  with  a  fierce  hot  glow.  But  still  he  held  on, 
trembling,  trembling  violently.  Great  heavens,  would  the  thinu' 
take  all  day  to  go  past  ?  Each  instant  seemed  to  l(^ugLlien  itsell 
out  into  an  eternity  I 

A  second's  breathing  space.     The  engine  passed  him  I 

Then  the  tender  went  next,  jar,  jar,  jar,  jar.  And  after  it  the 
carriages,  with  their  unconscious  living  load  of  humanity,  not 
one  soul  of  whom  knew  how  an  unhappy  fellow  creature  was 
hanging  on  below  thcie  for  dear  life  with  straining  hands  to  the 
ties  and  sleepers.  One,  two,  three,  four  of  them,  each  jarring 
separately,  and  each  almost  shaking  him  from  his  insecure  hold 
with  those  numbed  dead  fingers.  A  cattle  truck  next ;  two, 
three,  four,  five,  six  good  waggons.  And  then  a  pause.  Eustace 
breathed  again.  Thank  heaven,  thank  heaven,  the  jar  was  over. 
The  train  had  passed.     He  might  safely  get  up  again. 

But  when  he  came  to  try,  nis  cramped  hands  refused  to  raise 
their  heavy  burden.  He  hadn't  purchase  enough  to  pull  himself 
up.  He  must  wait  for  a  few  minutes  and  recover  his  strength. 
The  nervous  strain  had  unmanned  him  for  the  moment. 

So  he  waited,  waited  ;  half  fainted,  but  waited.  '-- 

Another  quick  change!  Great  heavens,  what  was  this  ?  The 
jar  ceased  abruptly.  The  girders  left  off  vibrating  one  moment. 
The  train  had  stopped,  before  reaching  the  end  I  Something 
must  have  happened.  Then,  suddenly,  the  jolting  began  once 
more,  but  in  the  opposite  direction.  A  horrible  doubt  appalled 
his  mind.  Next  instant,  the  doubt  resolved  itself  into  a  cer- 
tainty. The  engine  was  reversed  I  The  train  was  coming  back 
again  t 

Could  he  muster  up  strength  to  face  it  out  ?  Could  he  ever 
hold  on  till  it  had  reached  once  more  the  other  side,  numbed  and 
cramped  as  he  was  already  with  his  superhuman  effort  ? 

And  even  if  it  went  back  and  passed  him  over  unhurt,  it  must 
still  go  on  a  second  time,  and  make  its  way  liually  to  Bouira  and 


A 


^ 


TUK    TENTS    OF    SUEM. 


280 


Palaestro.  Twlco  moro  of  that  speechless,  indescribable  «us- 
ponao  I  TwicMi  more  of  that  liorrible  grating  and  jarring  I  He 
could  novor  oiidure  it.     It  would  kill  him  with  the  uncertainty. 

}>a(d(,  back  tliuy  cumo,  all  those  same  cruel  carriages,  in  re- 
vcrsod  ordur. 

Ouo,  two,  tlu'oe,  four,  five,  six — those  were  the  goods  wagons. 
Ho  co'.mtod  thorn  all,  wagon  by  wagon,  a  long  age  each,  going 
slowly  over  a^'jiin.  Then  the  cattle-truck;  he  could  hear  the 
oxen  in  it.  Tiien  one,  two,  three,  four — eastward  they  went 
Jij^MJn,  tliOHO  four  passenger  carriages.  Jar,  jar,  jar,  as  they 
pa.sHod  ovorhoad  ;  the  grating  this  time  far  more  deliberate  and 
worso  than  ovor.  The  tender  rolled  next,  on  slow,  slow  wheels ; 
ind  now  for  the  danger  of  dangers — the  engine.  That  was 
worst  of  all,  bocauso  of  the  heat  and  glare  and  blast  of  the  fur- 
nace. If  it  halted  over  his  head  (and  it  was  going  very  slow)  the 
h(!at  would  torture  hiin  ;  it  would  be  all  up  with  him,. 

How  inHtatitaneouH  is  thought ;  how  swift  ;  how  indivisible  I 
la  that  sucond  of  time  between  the  tender  and  the  boiler  he 
i'au.!<ht  hinisnlf  speculating  in  his  whirling  brain  why  the  train 
had  turnofj  hack  on  the  bridge  at  all,  and  how  long  it  would  wait 
Ut't'om  it  W(!nt  back  a,Li;ain. 

Then  tho  boiler  came,  and  with  it  oblivion. 

All  Iks  knew  clearly  was  that  a  dart  of  pain,  presumably  in  the 
hiuid,  waH  followed  fast  by  a  faint  sensation  of  rushing  air  buoy- 
ing' him  Uf)  all  round — a  sudden  plunge,  a  thud,  a  stoppage. 
riie  uuivftrse  seemed  to  reel  and  whirl  around  him.  All  else 
A  as  hlank.     lie  had  fallen  insensible. 

One  Hpurt  of  hoilijig  water  from  the  engine  as  it  passed  had 
hopped  accidentally  on  the  hooked  hand  that  barely  clutched 
the  ru<,'g('d  uleoper,  That  sudden  throb  of  scalding  pain  made 
him  relax  liis  tenaciions  "niscles  instinctively.  It  was  all  up  then. 
His  liandH  let  ;;o.  il  had  fallen  on  to  the  sandbank  that 
bounded  the  river. 


0^1 


Af 0.; 


•■  I 


i 


240 


ffn    TSNTI    Of    IBBli* 


(1 


CHAPTER  XXXVIIl 


WflY    IT    STOPPED. 

And  Meriem  f  Well,  the  train  was  putting  back  to  pick  up 
Aieriem. 

When  Eustace  left  her,  she  had  eat  for  a  while  listless  on  the 
bare  bank,  too  Weary  to  think  of  anytliing  but  her  own  fatigue, 
and  longing  for  rest  ahd  food  and  release  from  anxiety.  For 
Vfernon  Blake's,  danger  was  still  an  ever-present  reality  to  lier 
uiind.  persisting  through  everything  as  a  vague  back;. round  of 
consciousness.  She  watclied  Eustace,  as  in  a  trance,  uiakuij,'  his 
Way  slowly  over  those  open  ties.  Would  he  gel  across  the  bridge 
in  safety,  she  wondered,  half  dreamily — would  he  get  across  and 
rouse  Algiers  in  time  to  rescue  Iris  and  Vernon  ? 

So  she  sat  there  listless,  with  her  eyes  part  closed.  But,  like 
all  mountaineers,  she  had  keen  hearing.  An  indefinite  lium  soon 
attracted  her  attention.  What  was  that  faint,  low  noise  that 
bu/zod  aioug  the  line?  A  distant  b'r'r,  that  seemed  to  sJiake 
the  bridge  ?  Though  she  had  never  beheld  a  railway-line  in  lier 
life  het'ore,  she  felt  sure  it  was  the  train  coming  up  from  east- 
ward. 

A  train  she  knew  only  as  a  wonderful,  horrible,  death-dealing 
machine.  Strange  stories  had  reached  her  ears  in  her  remote 
mountains  of  the  magic  pace  and  dangerous  whirl  of  those  inven- 
tions of  Satan,  which  run  a  man  down  before  ever  he  can  cross 
the  path  in  front  of  them.  The  infidels  knew  how  to  make  wild 
iron-horses  that  careered  along  the  ground  with  dizzy  speed,  like 
birds  on  the  wing,  or  shooting-stars  in  heaven.  If  any  living 
creature  presented  itself  in  their  way  when  they  were  in  full 
flight  (may  Allah  preserve  us  I),  they  crushed  it  in  their  wrath 
under  their  heavy  wheels,  as  an  angry  bull  crushes  a  grasshopper 
beneath  his  tread  on  his  way  to  dash  fiercely  at  a  bellowing  rival. 
Those  who  have  never  seen  a  locomotive  have  always  heard  of  it, 
indeed,   chiefly   as   a   fearful  engine  ol"  destruction.     Meriem's 


Ms   TENTS    OF   6U.&ii 


841 


'•y 


terrore  were  raised  to  the  highest  pitcii  of  snpnrstitious  awn,  n<^ 
she  saw  thw  great  snorting  and  puffing  creuturti,  breathing  lire 
from  its  nostrils,  wheel  rapidly  round  the  comer  of  the  moun- 
tain, and  bear  down  with  a  wild  swoop  upon  the  bridge  in  front 
of  her — the  bridge  where  Easlace  was  feeling  his  way  slowly, 
with  tentativ*  feet,  above  the  yawning  abyss  of  the  gorge  0/ 
Isser. 

And  it  was  she  who  bad  sont  him  on  his  awful  errand  I  She 
who  had  urged  him  to  cross  the  bridge  I  8he  who  had  asked 
him  to  try  that  dangerous  path,  for  Vernon's  sake — for  Ver- 
non's and  Iris's  I 

He  was  so  good,  so  brave,  so  true,  so  gentle  t  And  he  loved 
her  so  truly  I  How  could  she  ever  have  aacrificed  that  earnest 
soul  to  her  unkind  lover  ?  Her  heart  snjote  her  with  a  terrible 
remorse.  She  flung  herself  on  the  line  in  an  agony  of  regret. 
"  Eustace,"  she  cried,  in  a  wild  cry  of  despair,  "  Eustace,  Eustace, 
it'i  coming,  Eustace." 

Bat  he  never  heard  her,  or,  if  he  heard,  he  never  turned  his 
face  aside  to  listen  for  one  moment.  It  would  crush  him  where 
he  stood  before  ever  he  was  aware  of  it  1 

If  only  she  had  done  as  Eustace  told  her — waited  patiently  by 
the  side,  and  never  stirred  from  her  place,  come  what  might,  all 
might  yet  have  gone  well  with  them.  The  train  would  have 
passed  over  his  head  in  safety,  and  Eustace,  when  it  had  passed, 
might  have  summ'^ne'  up  his  strength,  by  slow  degrees,  to  raise 
himself  on  his  elbows  to  the  level  of  the  bridge  again.  But  what 
woman  on  earth  could  keep  her  presence  of  mind  enough  to  obey 
a  man's  instructions  at  such  a  crisis  ?  She  only  knew  that 
Eustace  was  in  danger — that  she  had  sent  him  to  his  death— 
that  for  her  sake  be  had  gone — that  at  all  hazards  she  must  try 
to  save  him. 

The  horrible  thing  was  deaf,  and  blind,  and  senseless,  indeed, 
as  it  came  roaring  and  rushing  with  lightning  speed  down  that 
steep  incline  ;  but  it  had  a  man  on  board,  no  doubt ;  an  infidel 
at  the  helm,  but  still  a  man  who  guided  and  directed  it.  She 
would  fling  herself  in  front  of  it  and  attract  his  attention.  She 
would  throw  up  her  arms  and  beckon  him  to  stop.  He  would 
pull  up,  perhaps,  (if  to  pull  up  were  possible),  when  he  saw  a 
v/oman  on  the  line  before  him.  waving  her  hands  and  shouting  to 
him  frantically. 

For  though  she  had  never  seen  a  train  in  hci-  life  before,  she 
eaw  at  a  glance  how  it  ran  upon  its  rails,  and  took  in,  iustinc- 
tively,  the  main  manner  of  its  external  workiixf . 


.-'i\\ 


■I'll 


21^ 


TUS   TENTS   OF    SHEM. 


Running  backwards  on  the  line  before  the  advancing  oM;:;ine 
lie  flung  up  her  hands  with  all  the  energy  of  despair,  and  wavt:' 
(sr  white  haik  wildly  in  the  breeze,  to  catch,  if  possible,  tl 
iigine-driver's  attention. 

Nearer  and  ever  nearer  came  that  horrible  thing,  snortii: 

team  from  its  uncouth  mouth,  and  glowing  in  its  front,  like  soni 

iving  creature  eager  to  swoop  down  upon  her  of  set  purpose,  t 

•rush  and  destroy  her.     But  she  had  no  thought  for  herself;  sh 

liought  only  of  Eustace.     It  might  knock  her  down  and  rui 

over  her  lifeless  body  at  its  own  fierce  will,  if  only  she  coulti 

make  it  halt  before  it  reached  Eustace — Eustace,  Eustace,  ol; 

Allah,   Eustace  1     She    ran  backward,  ever  backward,  withou: 

looking  where  she  went,  waving  her  hands  wildly,  and  shoutim 

in  Kabyle,  "  Stop,  stop,  in  Allah's  name  stop,  for  mercy  1  "  til 

she  almost  reached  the  beginning  of  the  bridge ;  where  she  woult 

have  fallen  through  the  open  spaces,  or  been  crushed  between  th< 

ties  by  the  devouring  engine. 

But  before  she  could  reach  it,  the  unspeakable  thing,  do\^ 
slackening  its  pace  somewhat,  as  if  in  answer  to  her  cries,  wr.^ 
uiirly  upon  her.     No  matter  for  that.     She  knew  it  was  slacken 
ng  I     Then  they  saw  her  I     They  saw  her  I     They  mean  to  pu. 
ip  I     Perhaps  the  thing  would  stop  before  it  reached  Eustace. 

*•  For  Allah's  sake,  stop  ;  for  mercy,  for  mercy  I" 

Next  instant,  the  buffer  had  struck  her  full  on  the  bosoi  i 
)he  stumbled  and  fell.    Lights  danced  before  her  sight.     A  U  c 
lible  sense  of  a  stunning  blow  overcame  and  sickened  her.     blit 
closed  her  eyes  wearily.    And  all  was  silence. 

The  driver  of  the  morning  train  from  Setif,  looking  aher. 
along  the  line  as  he  turned  that  sharp  corner  before  reaching  tli 
trestle  bridge  across  the  Isser,  had  been  surprised  to  see  a  vvouin 
— une  indigene — these  natives  are  so  foolish — running  backwn 
on  the  line,  with  her  face  towards  the  engine,  and  waving  hti 
iiands  frantically  before  her  face,  to  stop  him.     •*  Tiens,"  he  re 
marked  with  philosophic  calm  to  his  friend  the  stoker,  "  vinL> 
ncore  une  de  ces  imbeciles  qui  desire  se  /aire  calandrer  comme  oii 
alandre  le  linge  chez  la  blanchisseuse  ;  and  yet,  if  we  run  over  her 
hey'll  start  &  proces-verbal  against  us,  par  exewple,  for  causing  tin 
ieath  of  a  native  by  carelessness.     Those  idiots  of  lawyers  !  " 

But  be  did  his  best,  none  the  less,  in  his  own  iuteresft  tc* 
verl  a  catastrophe.    Those  idiots  of  law^'ers  must  be  pacific/' 
rnehow. 


THE    TENTS   OF    BHEU. 


24» 


The  train  was  rushing  (lo^vn  the  incline  with  all  stoam  on,  to 

-nnt  the  steep  gradient  on  the  other  side,  as  it  went   towards 

niira  ;  but  the  brake  had  been  well  in  hand  for  the  purpose  of 

•  irniiig  the  sharp  corner  of  the  gorge  in  safety,  and  the  engine 

h-iver  was  therefore  able  to  apply  it  in  hot  haste  the  moment  he 

^aw  that  mad  Kabyle  figure  careering  and  gesticulating  along  the 

single  line  right  in  front  of  him.     The  man  on  the  bridge  he 

ilid  not  see  ;  that  dancing  creature  in  the  wild  white  robo  dis- 

o-acted   his   attention   from   all   else   beyond  for  the  first  few 

seconds  ;  and   before  he   could   recover  his   presence  of  mind 

sufficiently  to  grasp  the  whole  situation  at  once,  Eustace,  letting 

liimself  down  by  his  hands  between  the  girders,  had  disappeared 

beneath  the  ties  among  the  mazes  of  the  trestle-work.     However, 

the  womun  alone  was  well   .vorth  stopping  for  ;  those  idiots  of 

lawyers  hold  you  guilty  of  contributory  negligence,  worse  I'uck  I  if 

you  don't  pull  up  sharp  even  for  a  suicide.     The  driver  put  on 

the  brake  quick   and  hard  ;  the  hiss  of  it  grated  with  jarring 

vihration  all  along  the  whole  length  of  the  bridge  and  the  girders. 

But  it  isn't  so  easy  to  stop  a  train,  either,  going  full  pelt  by 

steam  and  gravity,  down   a  steep  incline,  with  a  bridge  at  the 

l)ottom.     Before  he  had  time  to  bring  the  engine  fairly  to  a 

tand-still,  the  bn  Iters  had  hit  tliat  frantic  Kabyle  woman  full  on 

he  breast,  and  the  train  had  passed  calmj^  and  resistlessly  on 

cross  the  level  of  the  bridge  in  front  of  her.     It  was  only  when 

hey  had  almost  reached  the  opposite  side  that  the  wheels  with 

liiRculty  obeyed  tlie  brake,  and  pulled  up  sharp  midway  with  a 

jar  tliat  grated  hard  through  the  long  line  of  carriages. 

A  dozen  heads  peeped  forth  at  once,  inquisitive,  from  a  dozen 
windows.  "  Qii'est-re  qnil-y-a  done?  "  a  dozen  querulous  voices 
exclaimed  in  concert  in  their  highest  key.  A.nd  the  guard,  from 
his  little  perched  box  Ixhiiid,  res;)OM<lod  cheerfully,  "  As  far  as  I 
i*,an  see,  Messieurs  et  MesJames,  tliere's  no  harm  done !  An  in- 
cident of  Algeria  I     \Ve've  run  over  an  indifjene  !  " 

"  Nothing  wrong  with  t!ie  train,  my  dear,"  a  reassuring"  ;  rpa, 
in  a  black  skull-cap,  with  h-u wing  his  head,  remarked  to  a  >.  r.iu- 
lous  mamma  huddled  up  in  the  corner.  *' Pas  de  deraillement ! 
The  engine's  al!  right.  We've  only  stopped  because  we've  had 
the  misfortune  to  run  over  a  stray  Kabyle  woman." 

'*  Pas  plus  que  en  !  "  Madame  answered,  consoled,  an^'  Strttled 
herself  down  comfortably  once  more  in  her  rugs  in  the  corner. 

But  in  the  roadway  behind,  Morif^n  lay  stunned  and  bleediny 
)n  the  iins ;  and  midway  across  Uid  bridge,  Eudta.ce  Le   Mar 


244 


THE   TBMTl  OF   8BEI|. 


V4 


chant  still  hung  with  hooked  hands  for  dear  life  to  the  ilseprt^ 
buneath  them. 

'*  What  to  do  ?  "   the  engine  driver  murmured  in  doubt  to  h 
friend  the  stoker. 

"Go  back,"  the  stoker  answered,  vvitli  glib  suggestivrnt'H- 
•'  and  pick  up  the  body,  Strictly  *»»  ifi/le.  That  satisfiea  tin 
Court.  It  sliovvs  at  least  (sacred  name  ol"  a  dog  1}  you've  doin 
tike  best  you  could  to  avert  an  accidejit." 

"You   have   reason,   imm  vieu.r,"  the  engine-driver  answered, 
slapping  bira  on  the  back,  and  reversing  his  locomotive.    "  Alh>tis 
ilonCf  let  us  pick  her  up,  as  you  say,  for  form's  sake,  this  mangled 
out  Kabyle  woman. 

So  they  turned  and  went  back  to  pick  np  Meriem. 

And  as  tliey  passed  the  spot  where  luistace  still  clung  with  al' 
his  might  to  the  hard  angles  of  wood,  three  or  four  boiling  drop 
from  the  waste-pipe,  turned  on   by  the  reversal,  hiippened  to  fa. 
on  his  left  knuckles,  and  finished  the  task  of  sending  him  to  tin 
bottom. 

The  little  tragedy  worked  'tself  out  in  its  own  dim  way,  all  uii 
known  to  the  principal  but  unconscious  acto.'S. 

So  they  picked  up  Meriera,  a  bleeliiig  mass  of  limbs  antl 
clothes,  and  kid  her  with  rough,  unfeeling  hands  on  the  tioor  of 
an  empty  third-class  carriage. 

**  Tiens,"  the  passenger  in  the  skull-cap  remarked  with  anima- 
tion to  the  guard  as  he  passed,  looking  down  into  the  sand  at  the 
bottom  of  tliB  ravine.  "  Do  you  run  over  many  of  them  hero  in 
this  gorge  ?  Tliere's  another  indit^ene  lying  stilT  and  dead  on  the 
oankdownyonder  bythesideof  the  torrent  there."  For  Kustace's 
new  suit  of  Kabyle  costume  had,  ot  coui-se,  transformed  him  in 
outward  appearance  into  a  complete  and  very  unmistakable 
Algerian  native. 

"  C'fst  imtV*  the  guard  answered,  shading  his  eyes  with  his 
hand  against  the  newly-risen  sun,  and  cabling  a  curious  glance 
down  the  deep  ravine.  "  But,  thank  lieaven.  we've  noiliing  to 
do  with  liim,  at  any  rate,  we  others.  We  can  tell  the  people  at 
the  station  to  fetch  him  along  and  make  all  enquiries.  Her  hus- 
band, no  doubt  I  Tumbled  over  and  killed.  It  was  him,  you 
may  be  sure,  she  was  making  such  a  fuss  about.  They  trespass , 
like  cows  on  the  line,  these  indiijene.s !  " 

And  the  incident  being  thus  satisfactorily  closed,  the  tram 
steamed  on  gaily  upon  its  way  once  more,  with  Meriem's  body 
cSifdly  abuiird,  mi  s^rnved.  to  the  stoker's  conscious  pride,  only 


tHE  tENtS  or  SRSM. 


246 


^evtllk  minntes  behind  the  advertised  time  at  Beni-Mansonr 
Station. 

"  There's  another  of  them  lying  dead  in  the  guiley  down  be- 
low," the  engii  e  driver  o.  ■  Tved  to  the  chef  de  (fare,  with  a  wave 
of  hif  hand  towards  where  Eustace  lay  huddled.  ♦'  A  monsieur 
in  a  first-class  carria^re  detected  him.  You'd  better  tell  the 
Sisters  at  the  Home  over  yonder  to  send  out  a  stretcher  to  bring 
him  ap,  and  get  him  bid  out  and  buried  decently." 

For  accidents  will  happen,  even  on  the  best-re£;ulated  French 
railwtiyi. 


n- 


^m^^ 


-Z40 


t:i^     ItiN'i'b    OF    8BE1&. 


-J .' 


/ 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 


THE   BELEAGUERED   FORT. 

All  night  long,  St.  Cloud  held  out  bravely ;  and  all  night 
long  fresh  hordes  of  insurgents  kept  pouring  in  from  outlyinj^ 
villages  on  the  inaccessible  spurs  of  distant  hills  ;  for  the  Kabyles, 
like  the  eagles,  perch  their  eyries  on  the  topmost  ledges  of  thf 
mountain  peaks,  where  no  other  foot  can  easily  follow  them. 
All  night  long,  too,  Iris  Knyvett  sat,  white  and  anxious,  tending,' 
Vernon  Blake  and  the  other  wounded  men,  while  that  hideous 
din  continued  to  wax  fiercer  and  ever  fiercer  outside,  and  that 
awful  glare  to  glow  redder  and  ever  redder  through  the  cracks 
of  the  case-mate.  Even  Madame  I'Administratrice  herself  felt 
her  martial  ardour  cool  soriewhat,  as  she  saw  how  the  natives 
gathered  thick  in  fresh  swarms  around  that  doomed  Fort — one 
seething,  surging  mass  of  half  savage  humanity,  now  hanging  b} 
hundreds  like  bees  from  a  branch  on  the  bare  brick  walls  of  tlu 
frail  fortress,  and  pressing  on  to  their  death  with  Mahommedui. 
ardour  in  the  cumbered  line  of  the  shallow  green  fosses. 

"  The  more  we  mow  down,  the  more  seem  to  grow  up  afresh,' 
Madame  exclaimed  at  last,  raising  her  hands  in  horror  and  as 
tonishment  to  heaven.  "  They  use  each  other's  bodies  like  rats 
or  vermin,  just  to  make  a  bridge  of  dead  for  the  survivors  to 
trample  on.  The  hateful  creatures  I  I  wish  I  was  a  man !  I'd 
like  to  go  out  and  have  a  good  shot  at  them  myself  before  the\ 
hacked  me  into  little  piecies." 

And  even  as  she  spoke,  a  loud  yell  of  triumph  arose  up  ane\\ 
from  the  Kabyle  ranks.  They  had  succeeded  in  setting  aliglu 
the  gateway  of  the  Fort.  Big  bursts  of  flame  spurted  forth  from 
the  loopholes.  The  red  tongues  of  fire  were  already  mounting 
high  upon  the  stone  lintels. 

"  Unless  reinforcements  arrive  by  mid-day,"  Madame  I'Ad- 
ministratrice remarked,  surveying  the  situation  with  critical 
coolness  through  her  tortoisesheU  glasses,  *'  we  shall  have  to 
lurrender,  as  they  did  at  Palaestro  in  '71 ;  and  then,  my  dear," 


VHX    TENTS   OF    SHS2S. 


247 


sni^Tostivply,  with  a  sudden  click  nrross  lior 
will   make  mincemeui  of  as  : 


savages 


ihe  3rew  hot  hand 
small  white  throat,  "  the 
it'll  be  all  up  with  us." 

"  What  happened  at  Pahiestro  in  71  ?  "  Iris  asked,  with  a 
shudder,  as  the  shouts  once  more  rose  loud  and  clear  from  the 
gateway,  heavenward. 

"Ah,  my  dear,"  the  little  P/enchwoman  answered,  with  a 
sagacious  nod,  "  you  should  just  have  been  here  then;  that  was 
something  like  fighting.  You'd  have  known  what  an  insurrec- 
tion was  like,  I  can  tell  you.  I  was  the  only  woman  who  escaped 
alive  from  old  St.  Cloud  ;  and  at  Palaestro — pouf ! — with  a 
bourn  !  bourn  1  boum  !  they  extinguished  the  garrison  after  it  had 
surrendered." 

*'  After  it  had  surrendered  '      -ris  repeated,  shrinking. 

•'  Ah,  after  it  had  surrendered,  je  le  crois  bien,  mon  enfant  I 
Murdered  them  all  in  cold  blood.  The  settlers  held  out  to  the 
very  last  moment  in  the  niaison  cantonniere  and  the  Gendarmerie 
next  door.  But  when  the  Gendarmerie  was  almost  tumbling  in 
ruins  about  their  heads — riddled  througli  and  through,  as  we 
shall  be  soon — Bassetti  and  the  rest  came  out  on  parole — that 
brave  Bassetti — with  a  promise  that  they  might  retire  with 
credit,  their  arms  in  their  hands,  bien  entendu,  for  the  honour  of 
France,  to  the  nearest  civilised  settlement  in  the  district.  No- 
thing more  military — they  surrendered  on  terms.  They  carried 
their  arms  out  with  them,  like  true  French  soldiers.  He  bien, 
ma  chere,  as  soon  as  they'd  got  just  outside  the  house— on  terms, 
remember — houp,  sauve  qui  pent,  the  savages  were  down  upon 
them,  knocking  them  over  with  the  butt-ends  of  their  rifles,  and 
massacring  them  then  and  there  in  cold  blood,  with  true  Kabyle 
treachery.  Poor  old  men  and  beardless  boys,  voyez-vou  bienf 
Do  you  wonder  that  I  hate  them,  then,  these  coclwna  d'indi- 
gencs  /  " 

Iris  shuddered.  *  It's  terrible,  she  cried,  "  terrible, 
terrible  I  " 

"And  to  think,  Iris  dear,"  Mrs.  K.iyvett  remarked,  with 
superfluous  reproachfulness  under  these  painful  circumstances, 
"  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  your  determined  opposition  to  your 
dear  uncle,  we  might  have  been  sitting  at  our  ease  this  very 
minute  in  Sir  Arthur's  villa  at  Mustapha  Superieur,  not  knowing 
there  were  such  people  as  Kabyles  anywhere.  Oh,  if  I  only 
once  get  out  of  this  horrible  place,  I'll  never,  never,  as  long  ai 
I  hve,  go  among  such  frijlitfui  creatures  again — never,  uevM^ 
neve;,  never." 


248 


TUA    liLU'Lfi   or    bHlLJI. 


«i 


But  yon  won't  get  out  of  It,  cuore  dams,'*  Madame  continued, 
eomplacently,  just  grasping  her  meaning  through  the  mist  of  her' 
English  ;  "  I  was  coming  to  that.  I  was  just  going  to  teU  you  ; 
they'll  do  with  us  precisely  as  they  did  at  Palaestro — they'll 
murder  us  wholesale.  T'chk,  t'chk,  t'chk  at  every  one  of  our 
throats.  It's  a  Jehad,  you  know — a  holy  war ;  and  in  a  Jejiad, 
madame,  there's  no  keeping  troth  or  trust  with  the  infidels. 
Well,  the  women  and  children  were  in  the  rnnison  cantonniere,  as 
I  was  on  the  point  of  telling  you  (whew  I  what  a  bullet  1  it 
nearly  made  a  hole  through  the  casemate).  They  held  out 
there,  with  just  a  handful  of  men,  till  the  fire  around  them 
actually  scorched  and  burnt  their  dresses  ;  and  tht;n,  of  "irsf. 
they  could  hold  out  no  longer.  So  they  surrendered  n.  fist- 
surrendered  on  terms  of  sparing  their  poor  httle  lives  alone. 
The  savages  accepted  them.  But  as  soon  as  they  came  down,  ^ 
r'r'r,  the  same  as  before — the  men  were  killed — ^just  knocked 
on  the  head,  so,  before  the  women's  eyes ;  and  the  women  were 
stripped  of  their  very  clothes,  and  handed  over,  in  I  dare  not  -- 
tell  you  what  shameful  condition,  to  the  tender  mercies  of  ' 
those  savage  brutes  there.  That's  what  we  may  expect,  if 
Hippolyte's  fool  enough  to  listen  to  terms.  But  I  hope  he 
won't.  For  my  part,  I'd  sooner  die  first,  with  my  tongue  in  my 
cheek,  flinging  a  eurse  with  my  last  good  breath  against  those 
dogs  of  savages." 

With  euoh  cheering  conversation,  the  ni^ht  wore  through,  and 
the  morning  dawned  upon  their  weary  eyehds.  More  and  mdre 
Eabyles  Beamed  to  burst  upon  them  for  ever.  Monseigneur 
and  Blake,  and  the  other  wounded  who  could  still  bear  arms, 
had  gone  out  long  since  perforce  to  join  the  shattered  little 
band  of  tired  defenders.  The  guard-room  and  dwelling-house 
alone  held  out  now.  The  courtyard  of  the  fort  was  in  the  hands 
of  the  enemy. 

••  Unles*  reinforcements  arrive  before  noon,"  the  commandant 
said,  with  a  despondent  glance  at  the  enemy,  "we  must  ask  for 
terms.  We  can't  hold  out  much  longer  against  such  over- 
whelming numbers." 

*•  liet  us  die  where  we  stand  first,"  Sabaterie  answered  with  a 
shudder.     ••  For  the  sake  of  the  woinen,  let  us  all  die  fighting." 

Presently  the  front  of  the  house  became  quite  untenable. 

*•  We  must  put  you  on  the  terrace,"  M.  I'Administrateur 
eaid  quietly,  coming  up  to  the  women.  *•  You'll  be  out  of 
reach  of  the  bullets  there.  Duck  behind  the  parapet.  When 
that's  DO  longey  safe,  we  must  taJce  such  terms  as  they  chooM  lo 


wmm 


TSM   TSMTl   or   IHXU. 


249 


••  No  terms  !    No  terms  I  "  Madame  answered  firmly. 

The  women  and  children,  huddling  close  together,  made  their 
way  out  by  the  steps  at  the  back  on  to  the  flat  top  of  the  old 
Moorish  villa.  A  wall  surrounded  it  on  each  side,  t^  foot  or  two 
high,  and  sufficiently  thick  to  be  quite  buJlet-proof.  Madairie 
TAdministratice,  irrepressible  still,  raised  her  head  for  a  moinont 
above  the  summit  of  this  parapet  to  see  how  tlie  (i.^Mit  now  went 
below.  In  a  second,  the  sight  of  that  hated  face  drew  a  shower 
of  fire  once  more  from  the  Kabyles  in  the  courtyard,  wlio, 
inspired  alike  by  bigotry  and  liate,  thirsted  for  tlie  blood  of  the 
high-heeled  woman.  The  indomit  iltle  httle  soul,  not  daunted 
even  now,  drew  off  one  of  hur  da;  ^iv  Parunan  evcnin'jr  shoes 
a  strange  reminder  of  last  ni^,'!it's  suddenly  interrupted  fos- 
♦ivities — and  held  it  on  a  casun I  .fragment  of  bamboo  bi>4h  alio*.*' 
the  parapet.  "Let  them  w;iste  tlmir  bu'dots  on  that,"  she 
^•ried,  derisively;  and  waste  them  they  did,  inileinl.  in  gotxl 
earnest,  for  in  another  minute  not  a  shred  was  left  of  the  ui- 
-  aulihig  token.  Madame  knew  as  well  as  they  did  by  wlmt  nick 
name  she  was  called  among  the  wild  tribes,  and  she  tlaunted  in 
their  faces  in  this  last  extremity  thai  expressive  symbol  of  her 
hated  presence. 

All  through  the  morning,  the  little  garrison  still  held  out  by 
superhuman  efforts.  Noon  came  at  last,  and  with  it  the  glare 
of  an  almost  tropical  sun.  Icy-cold  as  they  had  been  on  the 
snow-clad  tops  of  the  Djurjura  last  night,  when  Meriem  crossed 
them,  it  was  broiling  hot  now  in  the  full  eye  of  heaven  on  the 
white-washed  roof  of  that  flat  open  teirace.  A  burning  sky 
hung  hazy  blue  overhead,  and  a  hot  sirocco  swept  on  with 
fierce  force  from  the  sweltermg  desert.  All  round,  the  smoke 
and  heat  of  a  great  conflagration  went  up  in  bUnkii\^,'  mist  from 
the  ruddy  ruins  of  the  still  smouldering  village.  Nothing 
remained  of  St.  Cloud  to  behold,  indeed,  but  chnrred  and 
blackened  sites,  and  broken  walls,  and  that  one  gaunt  fort,  now 
tumbling  visibly  to  pieces  by  slow  degrees  before  the  vigorous 
assairlt  of  the  victorious  Kabyles. 

Their  only  hope  lay  in  the  arrival  of  succour.  Had  Any  ru- 
mour of  the  rising  yet  readied  Alj^iera  ?  Had  any  messenger 
descended  on  the  rail  at  BenirMansour  ?  Could  troops  hurry  up 
from  Tizi-Ouzou,  or  Fort  National  ? 

Or  were  Tizi-Ouzou  and  Fort  National  themselve?.  too,  in 
flames  I  Was  this  a  general  rising  of  ail  tiio  confederated  Al- 
gerian tribes,  or  a  mere  local  and  isolated  Kabyle  insurrection  ? 

The)-  knew  nollung.     They  could  guess  oothing.     They  could 


250 


THB    TENTS   OP    SHEM. 


only  wait  and  hope  and  wonder,  and  look  with  straining  eyes 
along  those  two  white  lines  curhng  round  anion,!,'  the  hills,  that 
showed  above  the  parapet  in  either  direction — the  roads  to  the 
two  nearest  European  stations. 

By  noon,  the  situation  was  no  longer  tenable.  The  Zouaves 
could  hardly  fight  another  half  hour  for  sheer  fatigue  and  thirst 
and  hunger.  Muttered  cries  of  "  Surrender  "  began  to  be  heard 
here  and  there  from  the  men.  The  fort,  in  fact,  was  but  a  rid- 
dled shell,  it  might  fall  down  bodily  about  their  ears  at  any 
moment. 

Just  then,  M.  I'Administrateur  made  his  appearance  suddenly 
at  the  door  that  led  upon  the  flat  wliite  terrace.  He  was  grimed 
with  smoke,  and  covered  with  stains  of  powder  or  blood.  •'  I'm 
going  to  make  terms,"  he  said,  sliortly. 

"  Jamais  I  "  Madame  cried,  in  her  shrillest  and  most  authori- 
tative accents,  stamping  her  little  foot  angrily  upon  the  tiles  of   , 
the  house-top.     ••  Jamais  !  jamais  !  viille  foie  jamah  !  " 

•'  We  can  no  longer  delay  it,"  Monsieur  responded,  coldly, 
twirling  his  mustaches. 

•*  Surrender  if  you  hke,  but  I'll  fi.'^lit  till  I  die,  if  I  hold  the 
fort  myself  alone,"  Madame  answered  with  spirit,  seizing  the 
sword  at  a  wrench  from  the  scabbard  by  his  siJe.  "  I  shall  not 
be  massacred  here  in  cold  blood  as  we  were  at  Palaestro.  I 
shall  die  blade  in  hand.  For  the  honour  of  France,  I  refuse  to 
surrender."  . 

*'  I  command  this  garrison,"  Monsieur  said  with  dignity. 

"  And  1  command  you,''  Madame  retorlcd    briskly,  with  her  ^ 
irrepressible  street  Arab  readiness.     "Go   back,"  she  went  on,  . 
in  a  coaxing  tone,  pouting  her  pretty  little   Parisian  lips  at  him  > 
coquettishly.     •♦  Go  back,  there's  a  good   man,  and   light  it  out  ' 
like  a  soldier  to  the  bitter  end.      If  in    twenty   minutes,  twenty  ■ 
inimiti.'S  by  my  watch — the   little   w;irch   you   gave   me,  you  re- 
member, IIip[)()l\te — we're  not  relieved    from    Fort   National  or 
somewhere,  pnrol.f  iriiomieur,  I'll  jump  down  among  them  myself, 
all  alive,  from  the  parapet.     Not  a  woman   shall   bo   taken   pri- 
soner.    We  will  save  our  honour  I     Death,  if  you  will,  but  not — 
not  these  savages  I  " 

"  You  are  right,"  Monsieur  f.ricd  with  spirit,  taking  her  hand 
in  his.  "  Such  a  woman  as  you  toach  mon  how  to  die.  I 
admire  you,  Adele.  You  shew  me  nj\  duty.  We  will  never 
surrender.  We'll  fight  them  to  the  end.  if  they  eaUy:  bhii 
U«uAtt,  it  skall  be  over  our  duul  budieA." 


1 


!!1  'i^PIfi 


XBM  raUTi  OF  §MMM» 


ttl 


Madame,  !n  a  indden  bnrst  of  unwonted  tandemess*  fll«pp«d 
forward  with  a  bound,  and  kissed  him  roundly. 

But  Iris  held  her  hands  to  her  ears  in  horror.  They  must  die 
where  they  stood  1  They  mrj^  die  that  day  i  Die  by  the  sword  t 
There  was  clearly  no  help  for  it  I 

Unless  a  relief  party  arrived  in  twenty  minutes  1 


.       ■!■->*' 


I 


■^^T- 


THl   TBNT8   Of   IBBli. 


1 


CHAPTER  XL. 


OUT    OV   THE    HURLY     BURLT. 


When  the  Sisters  at  Boni-Mansour,  aftor  carrying  Meriem 
tenderly  to  the  Rest  House,  went  down  witJi  a  stretcher  into  the 
gorge  by  the  river  in  search  of  tlie  dead  Kabyle  whom  they  were 
told  to  expect  there,  they  found  Eustace  Le  Marcliaiit  breathing 
still,  though  shattered  and  insensible  from  his  terrible  adventure. 
At  the  point  wliere  he  fell,  the  sand  bank,  by  good  luck,  hap- 
pened to  be  soft  and  very  yielding ;  it  had  broken  his  fall  as 
nothing  else  could  have  done,  and  received  him  gently,  as  on  a 
natural  muttress. 

As  they  laid  him  on  the  stretcher,  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  re- 
covering consciousness  for  a  second,  remembered  everything. 
Then,  the  gravity  of  the  crisis  supplying  him  with  false  strength 
for  the  unwonted  eil'ort,  he  cried  aloud  in  French,  with  a  sudden 
burst  of  feverish  energy,  •*  Danger  in  the  hills  I  Telegraph  at 
once  to  Tizi-Ouzou  and  Fort  National  for  aid !  St.  Cloud's  sur- 
rounded. The  wires  are  cut.  The  Kabyles  have  risen,  and  are 
attacking  the  Fort.  They've  proclaimed  a  Jehad.  They  hold 
the  roads  to  prevent  an  alarm.  I  came  down,  disguised,  over  the 
Col  of  the  Djurjura,  to  bring  word  and  warn  you,  and  ask  for 
succour."  Then  his  streni;ili  gave  out ;  he  could  say  no  more; 
he  fell  buck  insensible  on  the  pillow  of  the  stretcher. 

The  startled  Sisters  carried  him  off  to  the  Rest  House  without 
delay  and  laid  him  on  a  bed,  and  tended  him  tenderly.  But 
before  nven  his  first  rough  needs  had  begun  to  be  satisfied,  tvo 
of  their  number,  all  trembling  with  excitement  at  so  important 
a  mission,  went  off  to  the  little  mo.in'e  of  the  settlement  with  news 
of  the  strange  tidings  brought  them  in  such  a  providential  man- 
ner by  the  unknown,  disguised,  and  wounded  European. 

Information  so  serious  and  so  genuinely  vouched  for  could  not 
be  disregarded  even  by  the  most  severe  of  French  red-tape  offi- 
cials ;  and  before  six  o'clock  in  the  early  morning,  therefore,  a 
telegram  iiad  reached  the  post  of  Tizi-Ouzou,  "  Reported  rising 


M 


IIP 


■I 


IHB    TENTS   OF    BHKM. 


2S 


of  th«   KabylGB   in    Djurjnra.      St.    Cloud   surrounded.       T 
garrinon  in  danger.     A  sin^-Me  European  struggled  in  this  moi 
ing,  liaving  slipped  tlirougli  the  lines   in  native  dress,  and  d( 
peril toly  iujurou.     Suud  assistance  at  once  to  the  Fort.     Seeui 
apm'oaclioB." 

The  news  was    not    wholly    unexpected.     Douhts   had   bei 
raised  at  Tizi-Ouzou  even  earlier,  owing  to  the  interruption  ( 
tolegrapliio  communications,   as   to   the  safety  of  the  outlyin, 
little  garriHon    at  St.   Cloud.     The    wiroa  wouldn't   work  ;  an 
when  tliu  wires  won't  worli  in  an  occupied  cuunfry,  you  ma; 
always  KiiHpnct  the  possibility  at  least  that  souicbudy  fiomewher' 
has  delibcnitcly  cut  them. 

NevcrllielcHs,  as  the  Commandant  afterwards  renikrked  in  hi 
official  diHpatch,  "  no  .serious  apjirehension  was  at  first  entei 
tained,  as  the  Kabyles  bad  exhibited  few  symptoms  of  uneasines 
during  the  period  immediately  prpcedin"  the  outbreak." 

Tht'Ho  thunderbolts,  indeed,  alwiiy.s  fiill  in  Al.t^'ona  fj-oin  a  clea 
sky.  Tbo  utter  isolation  of  native  from  Eurupcan  hie  makes  i 
possible  for  the  Ariibs  or  I'erbers  to  [ilot  an  insurri'ction  in  it- 
minni(!St  details,  and  that  not  even  with  much  show  of  secrecv 

to  V 

of  conccidment,  yet  without  arousifig  for  a  moment  l)y  word  or 
deed  tiie  vij^ilance  of  the  authorities.  The  two  streams  of  lif' 
lluw  on  t(i;;(Lher  side  by  side,  unrelated.  They  touch,  bi;l  lhe\ 
do  not  mi,\.  Ilcli/^'ion,  manners,  sr'^^ch,  divide  tliem.  Wlun 
the  Kabyb?  thinks  or  plans  or  hopes  is  v  sealed  book  to  his  next 
door  nt'ighbodr,  tlie  li-uropean  settler. 

lleiicu  it  (!amo  about  that  at  Tizi-Ouzou  that  niji^ht  nobo-Iy  ha 
f(dt  Very  inucli  alarm  at  the  tem]>orary  interruption  of  telegraphu 
( omniniiication    with  the   mountain    posts.     \A'ires  are  alwa\^ 
hable  lo  get  wrong  anywhere.     Their  getting  wrong  excited  no 
sinister  suspicion.     But  as  soon  as  the  message  from  Beni-Man 
sour  arrived,  everything  was,  nevertheless,  in  readiness   for  hn 
mediate  action.     Where  thunderbolts  from  a  clear  sky   may  b. 
expected  nt  any  moment,  people  live  in  the  perpetual  attitude  fo! 
receiving  them  like  Ajax.     In  a  very  few   minutes,  the   Zouaves 
were  called  out  iindcr  all  arms,  a  hasty  little  column  turned  witl 
marvtilloufl  speed  in  good  order;  and  with  bayonets  set  and  face.- 
on  the  alort,  the  hurried  relief  party  marched   steadily  up  tin 
military  road  that  leads  by  slow  zigzags   toy/ards   St.   Cloud  in 
the  mouiitM,ins. 

They  marched  all  morning  nt  a  forced  pace,  seeing  more  and 
more  signs  as  they  went  along  their  track  of  the  havoc  that  th»- 
Kubyiutt  hud  vvruu^jht  that  night  among  the  outlyint;  settlements 


i] 


2ff4 


tHX    TKNT8   or    8HEM. 


Ai  they  seared  St.  Glond,  the  blackened  farms  and  smouldering 
ruins  on  every  side  told  their  own  tale ;  they  had  come,  if  not 
too  late,  not  one  moment  too  soon.  A  massacre  had  clearly 
uken  place  at  the  Fort,  or  was  on  the  very  eve  of  taking  place, 
unless  they  could  arrive  just  in  time  to  relieve  it.  Here,  a  smok- 
ing oil-mill  lay  burnt  to  the  ground ;  there,  a  settler's  cottage 
stood  out  with  charred  walls,  and  roofless,  skeleton  timbers  ;  , 
yonder,  again,  a  mutilated  corpse  on  the  dusty  roadside  told  how  ' 
the  Kabyles  had  wreaked  their  vengeance,  with  hideous  disfigure- 
ments, on  some  inoffensive  colonist.  One  night  had  sufiiced  to 
lay  in  ashes  the  result  of  many  years'  active  toil — the  valley  of 
St.  Cloud  spread,  before  their  eyes  one  vast  scene  of  sudden  and 
wretched  desolation. 

On  their  road,  however,  they  met  with  little  or  no  opposition.  ^ 
Only  on  the  pass  just  below  the  village  of  the  Beni-Merzoug,  . 
••vhere  Meriem  and  Eustace  had  in  vain  endeavoured  to  force 
their  way,  a  strong  body  of  Kabyles  held  the  gorge  in  force.   , 
But  a  twenty  minutes,  skirmish  with  superior  arms  of  precision 
sufficed  to  dislodge  these  ill-equipped  foes,  and  the  little  column 
passed  on  upon  its  way  unmolested  to  the  Col  that  overhung  the 
St.  Cloud  valley. 

It  was  there  that  the  full  extent  of  the  mischief  wrought  by 
the  insurgents  broka  with  a  flash  upon  their  horrified  eyes.  As 
they  gazed  into  the  ^\en,  where  once.the  Fort  and  village  gleamed  *■ 
white  in  the  centre,  no  sign  of  the  settlement  seemed  for  a  ' 
moment  to  remain  anywhere.  All  they  could  make  out  was  a 
confused  mass  of  living  and  moving  creatures — the  swarm  of 
Kabyles,  like  ants  from  an  ant-hill,  surrounding  all  that  remained 
of  the  tottering  small  fortress.  ■:     -.     r- 

Was  St.  Cloud  itself  demolished  ?    Did  anything  yet  remain  ? 
Had  they  come  too  late  to  relieve  and  save  that  gallant  little 
garrison  ?     Or  was  there  still  a  remnant  left  fighting  hard  to 
the  death  against  tremendous  odds  for  life  and  honour  and  the  •    ' 
fair  fame  of  the  fatherland  ? 

From  the  Col  they  could  hardly  yet  make  out  for  certain  ;  but  . 
the  frequent  shots  that  echoed  through  the  hills  showed  that  ^^ 
fighting  of  some  sort  was  still  going  on.     Unless,  indeed,  the 
Kabyles  were  now  engaged,  after  their  wont,  in  massacring  the   \\ 
prisoners  after  a  surrender  I 

The  reheving  column  charged  at  a  double  down  the  slope  of 
the  hill,  resolved  at  least  to  avenge  the  memory  of  their  slaugb- 
rored  fellow-countrymen. 


i 


TBI    TENTS    or    SHEM. 


25S 


\' 


;•    \ 


In  the  Port  meanwhile  afTairg  l:ad  corne  to  th«  last  gasp. 
Ammunition,  wasted  like  water  in  that  sharp  fight,  was  begin- 
ning to  give  out.  It  was  a  question  of  sabres  and  bayonets  now. 
Let  the  rebels  come  on  I  They  must  sell  their  lives  dearly,  and 
then — all  would  soon  be  over. 

The  women,  crouched  and  huddled  together  in  a  mass  on  the 
hot  terrace,  were  silent  at  last  in  mute  expectation.  Even 
Madame  I'Administratrice  found  her  courage  fail ;  she  crouched 
Avith  the  rest  and  uttered  not  a  word,  but  gazed  av/ny  to  the  west 
with  a  yearning  heart  towards  tlie  Col  of  the  Beni-Merzoug, 

Presently  Iris  looked  up  and  spoke. 

"  What's  that  cloud,"  she  cried,  "  coming  over  the  Col — away 

yonder  on  the  left  ?     Do  you  see  it  ?     Do  you  see  it More 

Kabyles,  I  supposo.     Oh,  mother,  they'll  soon  swarm  over  us." 

Madame  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand  and  looked.  For  a  mo- 
ment she  hesitated.  Thev  were  hard  to  make  out.  She  dared  not 
behave  her  own  eyes.  Then  all  at  once,  in  their  hour  of  deliver- 
ance, her  calmness  broke  down  and  her  nerve  forsook  her.  The 
\toman  within  her,  so  long  repressed,  and  repressed  artificially, 
by  that  theatrical  courage,  burst  forth  with  a  rush  in  its  natural 
womanhood.  She  fell  upon  Iris's  neck,  sobbing,  with  a  wild  and 
hysterical  flood  of  tears. 

"  They're  Zouaves  I  '*  she  cried,  flinging  her  arms  madly 
round  her  English  friend,  "  they're  Zouaves  I  1  can  see  them, 
I  can  tell  the  uniform.  I  can  recognize  the  even  red  line  of 
march  I  I  can  make  out  the  flag  !  Nons  smiirnes  sauces,  saiives  I  " 
And  she  kissed  her  a'.'ain  and  again  on  both  cheeks  in  a  frantic 
outburst  of  pent-up  feeling. 

At  that  very  instant,  along  the  opposite  hill,  a  second  column 
appeared  above  the  crest,  in  a  cloud  of  dust  from  the  direction 
of  Fort  National.  A  cry  burst  forth  with  eager  energy  from  all 
those  watching  women's  lips, 

"  Les  Chasseurs,  les  Chasseurs  I  Mere  d*  Dieu  I  Notia  sommea 
sauves." 

Madame  I'Administratrice  waved  her  handkerchief  wildly 
round  her  head  in  triumph.  With  a  burst  of  joy  she  rushed  to 
the  trapdoor,  and  shouted  aloud  to  her  husband  beJow, 

**  Hippolyte  !  Ilipi^olytel  One  minute  longer  I  Hold  out  for 
your  lives  I  We  shall  b.^at  them  yet  1  Two  columns  are  coming. 
Zouaves  and  Chasseurs  !  We  have  them  between  two  fires. 
One  from  Tizi-Ouzou  !     The  other  from  Fort  'witionall  " 

A  few  moments  later  all  was  changed  ns  if  by  magic.  On 
either  side  a  body  of  trained  and  drilled  French   soldiers   was 


T,1^\'-'^ 


2ff6 


TBS  TXMT8  OV  8HXM. 


charging  with  fixed  bayonets  the  wearied  mob  of  irre^lar  I^a- 
byles.  For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  din  and  smoke  and  turmoil 
were  indescribable.  Hideous  shrieks  went  up  to  the  noondav 
sky.  Short  swords  were  brandished  and  rifles  fired.  A  frightful 
meUe  of  slaughter  ensued.  Then  the  noise  slowly  died  out  to  a 
few  stray  shots,  and  ceased  at  last.  The  women  on  the  roof 
breathed  freely  once  more.  The  Kabylea  were  surrounded — dis- 
armed— taken  prisoners  I 

Under  the  charred  remains  of  the  burnt  gate,  the  two  com- 
manders of  the  little  reheving  columns  came  up  with  smiles  on 
their  scarred  faces,  and  gave  their  hands  to  M.  TAdministrateui'. 
M.  I'Administrateur,  all  blood  and  powder,  grasped  them  warmly, 
with  his  own  left.  The  right  hung  limp  and  idle  by  his  side. 
The  women  had  crowded  do^vn,  now  their  terror  was  reheved,  to 
welcome  their  deliverers.  Madame  I'Administratrice,  herself 
once  more,  bounded  up  to  kiss  both  her  husband's  cheeks  openly, 
coram  populo. 

**  Hippolyte/'  she  nried,  with  genuine  admiration,  "  your  wife 
is  proud  of  you  I  You  fought  them  well.  I  didn't  believe,  moji 
ami,  you  could  fight  Uke  that  I  I'm  glad  we're  not  licked  by  these 
dogs  of  Eabyles. 

Iris  gazed  forth,  in  fear  and  trembling,  for  the  two  among  the 
party  who  most  interested  her  personally.  Was  Uncle  Tom  safe  ? 
and — was  Mr.  Blake  not  further  wounded  ? 

Presently:  from  the  black  and  grimy  mass  of  humanity  by  the 
gate,  there  disengaged  themselves  two  very  dusky,  much  torn 
objects,  in  the  shape  of  men,  but  with  clothes  and  fe&tures 
scarcely  distinguishable  for  dirt  and  tatters.  Their  faces  were 
ingrained  with  dust  and  ashes ;  their  garments  were  torn  ;  their 
general  appearance  was  a  cross  between  a  sweep  and  a  London 
scavenger.  One  wore  what  had  once  been  an  evening  suit ;  but 
his  tie  was  gone  and  his  shirt-front  was  far  from  being  spotlessly 
white.  The  other  had  his  elbow  looped  up  with  a  pale  blue  scarf 
— Iris's  own  scarf,  fastened  round  it  last  evening.  It  was  with  a 
start  that  she  recognised  her  two  brave  heroes.  How  prosaically 
dirty  and  hot  they  looked  1  The  gallant  defender  would  do  well 
as  a  rule,  in  fact,  if  he  washed  and  dressed  before  presenting 
himseK  in  person,  to  receive  on  the  spot  the  thanks  and  con- 
gratulations of  rescued  beauty. 

Uncle  Tom  "  came  up  smiling,*'  however,  in  spite  of  ovory- 
thing. 

"  My  dear,"  he  cried,  kissing  her  through  all  his  dirt,  "  I've 
been  perfectly  astonished.     I'd  no  conception  these  Frenchmen 


to 
Ir 
ht 
h( 


^1^^ 


tHJI    TINTB   OF   SMSII. 


117 


could  fight  like  deyils,  as  they've  been  doing  txiis  morning  I  By 
George,  Iris,  no  British  army  could  have  fought  more  pluckily  I 
But  it's  hot  work,  I  can  tell  you,  Amelia,  precious  hot  work ; 
a  long  sight  hotter,  for  a  man  of  my  weight,  than  even  lawn* 
tennis." 

As  for  Vernon  Blake,  it  must  be  candidly  admitted  that  he 
took  a  mean  advantage  of  the  situation.  For,  as  he  grasped 
Iris's  hand  with  his  own  burnt  and  grimy  fingers,  by  that 
hard-contested  gate,  he  murmured  so  low  that  only  she  could 
hear,  "  And  do  vou  still  insiat,  then,  I  must  marry  th«  Kabyle 
girl?- 


■>». 


.  ccn- 


THUi    lANl'll    OM    MUKM. 


/ 


CHAPTER  XLL 


SnrOULAA    DISOOVEBY    AT    SIDI    &U.  ,  \. 

At  Algiers  town,  meanwhile,  in  Dr.  Yate-Westbury'a  commo- 
dious villa  on  the  Mustapha  slope,  Harold  Knyvett  found  hiuiHcll 
in  the  lap  of  luxury.  With  Sidi  Aia  conveniently  next  door,  for 
the  full  development  of  his  recondite  plans,  and  old  Sarah  do- 
lighted  to  show  every  attention  to  Sir  Arthur's  nupliew  and  Miss 
Iris's  cousin  ("God  bless  her  pretty  face,  the  dear  young  lady !  "), 
the  lines  had  indeed  fallen  to  him  in  pleasant  places.  lie  could 
endure  with  equanimity  even  that  old  bore  Yate-Westbury's  in- 
fernal chatter  about  self-concentration  and  the  origin  of  insanity, 
when  he  knew  it  all  wafted  him  every  day  so  much  the  nearer 
to  the  accomplishment  of  his  grand  scheme  for  acquiring  the 
estate  and  bringing  Miss  Iris  down  upon  her  bended  knees 
(metaphorically)  before  him. 

For  h  ^  loved  that  woman  I  He  must  have  that  woman  !  He 
would  hb  able  her  in  the  dust,  and  then  make  her  marry  him  I 

So  he  worked  in  the  dark,  underground,  like  a  mole,  surely 
and  silently. 

But  the  worst  of  the  mole  ia,  it  only  sees  what  takes  place  he- 
Death  the  surface. 

"  I  want  you  to  come  over  with  me  this  afternoon,  Yate- 
Westbury,"  he  said  at  luncheon  one  day,  discounting  his  triumph, 
"  and  have  a  good  look  round  again  at  those  Moorish  antiques  in 
my  uncle's  villa,  or,  rather,  in  Iris's.  I  can't  quite  make  up  my 
mind  what  I  should  do  with  that  alcove  in  the  drawing-ro'^- 
if  the  house  were  mine.  The  point's  unimportant,  perh 
unimportant,  I  admit — considering  the  purely  hypothetical  i  « 
of  the  supposition  ;  but  still,  as  a  simple  matter  of  taste,  I  wu^it 
to  settle  it." 

The  famous  specialist  looked  hira  through  and  through  at  a 
single  glanch  vviih  hie  keen,  quick  vision.  "  Got  a  remote  eye  on 
the  heiress,  eh  ?  "  he  said,  siiarply.  *'  Well,  you  might  do  worse 
for  yourself  m  the  end  liian  ui.a i)  )uur  cousin.     A  dae  girl  with 


THJB    TENTS    OF    SHKM. 


250 


fine  property  ;  though  I'm  novcr  in  favour  myself,  if  it  comei 

timt,  of  consanp;uineous  marriages." 

'larold  laughed  a   short,    self-cornplacent  Httle  laugh      "I'li 

.lit  the  notion  of  reuniting  the  family  has  sometimes,  more  or 

■t    vuguoly,   crossed   my  mind,"  he  answered,  with  a  satisfied 

lirk.     •'  It  has  many  advantages,     "'he  girl  would  suit  me, 

le  villa  would  suit  me,  and  the  money  would  suit  me  down  to 

'le    very   ground.     From    several    points   of  view,  in   fact,   a 

ational  man  might  take  the  match  into  bis  favourable  con- 

ideration." 

"  And  the  girl?  "  Dr.  Yate-Westbury  ventured  to  ask,  with  a 

adden  glance  up  at  him  from  those  searching  eyes.     "  Might  a 

:iti:?nal  girl   take  the  match  into  her  favourable  consideration, 

too  ?     ^Vould  you  suit  her  as  well  as  she  and  the  villa'd  suit  you, 

I  wonder  ?  " 

Harold  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  with  somewhat 

jlfonded  dignity.     Those  doctor  fellows  presume  altogether  too 

lucli  upon  a  mere  professional  and  business  acquaintance.  "  I've 

.10  doubt,"  he  answered,  with  stony  politeness,  "  if  I  were  to  ask 

•jy  cousin  to  become   my  wife,  my  cousin  would  advise  herself 

■<]]  under  the  circumstances  before  she  rejected  me." 

Pr.   Yate-Westbury  changed  the  subject  at  once  with  medical 

Iroituess.     His  patient  was  fumbling  away  quite  too   visibly 

low  at  that  unfortunate  button.     When  a  patient  gels  off  on  his 

nervous  hobby,   the  wise  physician  avoids  dangerous  ground  by 

diverting  his  thon'jhts  with  a  jump  upon  dexterous  side-issues. 

"No   doubt,"    .e   echoed,     "And   the  vii  a's  certainly  very 

liiirming,   too.     i  iie,se   pretty  Moorish  things  would  make  any 

liuuso  beautiful.     Did  you  go  in  for  many  purchases  in  the  town 

i.his  mornmg  ?     It's  a  quaint  old  place,   and   fuU  of  interest, 

i.^n't  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  hardly  knew  whether  1  was  standing  upon  my  head 
•r  my  heels,"  Harold  answered,  with  ti'^^h.     "  One's  first  visit 
o   the    East's  a  perfect  revelation.     EjveryiJulz^  Oriental's   so 
loliciounly  new.     I  felt  as  if  Algiers  was  one  huge  kaj'jidoscope, 
ind  I  was  one  of  the  little  loose  glass  pieces  rattling  about  insiilc 
t.     The  colour,  the  din,  the  change,  the  excitement,  are  all  so 
Irange.     And  yet  in  a  wa,y,  too,  so  curiously  familiar  !     Tin 
•ople     nd   things  one  has  read   about  fron.  one's  child^  ■   'i  ' 
^itside,  this  is  apparently  to  the  naked  eye  tl  e  Xin(^t(eiir 
iry  ;  in  the  narrow  old  alleys  of  the  native  town.  I  iMun  ' 
1 1  at  once  transported  at  a  bound  on  some  euciiauteu  carpet  l. 
,iiu  Bj  "dad  of  good  Haroun-al-Raaehid." 


J 


260 


TIIK    TKXTS    P'     *<IIKM. 


« 


Did  you  go  into  any  of  the  shops  ?  "  Yate  \\'(stl""-'    i^lteu 
still  observing  him  closely. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  rather.  Your  man  Ahmed  took  me  into  one  in 
the  Rue  4e  la  Lyre;  Abder-er- Rahman's,  he  called  it ;  the  nanit. 
clone's  worth  all  the  money,  i  was  quite  taken  aback  when  i 
got  inside— a  dim  old  Mooris!  liouse,  you  know,  with  ii  tiled 
court  yard  and  ISaracenic  arcade,  and  piles  of  rich  Orieutal  stufifa 
lying  about  loose  everywhere,  and  pierced  brass  lamps  hanging 
down  from  the  roof,  and  an  abstruse  air  of  the '  Arabian  Nights ' 
pervading  mysteriously  all  the  quaint  surroundings." 

•'  And  yopi  bought  largely  ?  " 

"  Bought  largely !  my  dear  sir,  it's  a  place  to  spend  thousands 
in.  My  first  idea,  when  I  turned  over  those  great  piles  of  Alger- 
ian embroideries,  and  Persian  saddle  cloths,  and  Tunisian  silks, 
with  my  fingers  itching,  was  to  telegraph  over  at  once  to  my 
lawyer  in  London,  *  Sell  out  everything  instanter  at  close  market 
prices,  and  forward  the  proceeds  to  this  address  iox  immediate 

investment  in  Oriental  needlework  I ' Yes,  I  bought  a 

good  deal — some  Tlemcen  rugs,  and  several  nice  brass  and  silver 
inlaid  trays,  which  I  mean  to  put  up  over  the  front  arch  of  the 
red  room — when — when — "  and  he  broke  off  suddenly. 

"  When  you  marry  the  heiress  ?  "  Yate-Westbury  suggested, 
with  a  meaning  smile. 

Harold  had  checked  himself  with  an  involuntary  start.  It 
was  Ro  hard  to  anticipate  the  discovery  of  the  will — that  will  he 
himself  knew  so  well  already.  ••  When  I  marry  the  heiress,"  he 
repeated  mechanically^  "  Yes,  yes,  of  course,  when  I  marry  the 
heiress."  And  that  unlucky  button  twisted  round  and  round 
wi^ih  infinite  twirls  in  his  tremulous  fingers,  till  it  was  in  immi- 
nent danger  of  breaking  away  from  its  moorings  bodily. 

"  1  like  the  way  they  do  business  here,"  he  went  on  with  an 
effort,  trying  to  appear  at  his  ease  once  more,  and  to  talk  with 
his  usual  glib  Pall  Mall  readiness.  "  I  like  the  quaint  flavour 
of  antique  life  about  the  fat  impassive  old  Moor  in  the  embroid- 
ered jacket  who  keeps  the  bazaar,  and  puffs  his  cigarette  in  a 
dignified  repose  that  seems  to  imply  customers  and  telegraphs 
and  price  lists  are  not.  My  friend  Abd-er-Rahman,  in  fact, 
conducts  affairs  even  now  in  the  stately  old  style  of  the  one- 
eyed  calender,  when  time  was  not  yet  money,  nor  were  mer- 
chants shopkeepers ;  when  to  buy  a  brass  tray  was  a  commer- 
cial treaty  between  two  high  contracting  parties,  and  to  chaffer 
for  a  lamp  or  qji  embroidered  portiere  was  a  di]plomati9  evfat  to 
be  duly  solemuiged  by  prigrer  and  festivities." 


llsr. 


VBE    TENT9    OF    SHEM. 


201 


"  Ani  you  go!,  -.vli;;!  ;  om  w.intc.l '? '"  Y;ite-Westbury  A9ke4  s-gftin 
luriously. 

Harold's  mouth  twitched  with  a  more  nervoiif  twitch  than  evei 

s  he  re[)li€d,  in  a  studied  mook«cfurele89  tone,  "  Oh,  ^hat  key ; 

(38 — to  i!ie  singular  draw  of  my  ^ncle'8  davenport,  you  mean. 

vh,  ol  cuiu-ae,  I  remember.    WeU,  I'm  not  quite  sure.     I  hunted 

p  a  buudie  cf  skeleton  keys  at  the  serruner's  in  the  town,  and  I 

aru  say  one  of  them  may  happen  to  fit  it.     J3ut  it's  not  of  muoh 

)nsequ6nce  whether  it  does  or  not,  thank  you.     I've  no  right, 

iideed— except  9"<  a  cousin — to  go  poking  at^put  Iris's  house  in 

ler  absence.     {Still  it's  queer  nobody  should  have  noticed  tliat 

'rawer  in  the  davenport.    My  uncle  told  me  he  always  kept  his 

I  lost  important  papers  there."     And  as  he  spoke,  the  buttqn  at 

ist  came  fairly  off  in  his  irrepressible  fingers. 

After  lunch,  they  lighted  their  cigars  and  strolled  out  upon  the 

iwn,  and  Harold  drew  on  his  seemingly  unsuspecting  ccimpanion 

y  casual  side  paths  towards  the  garden  gate  at  Sidi  Aia.     The 

octor  followed  with  suspicious  eyes.     They  walked  up  the  drive 

lid  into  the  central  hall.     There  Harold  began  pointini?  out  the 

iirious  places  in  the  house  and  grounds  where  he  would  effect 

•^lmdry  alterations  and  improvements  of  his  own  "  if  tlie  property 

were  his/'  and  to  fiddle  in  between  whiles  with  his  bunch  of  keys 

iit  the  rusty  old  locks  of  that  recalcitrant  davenport.     How  he 

hugged  himsqlf  on  the  cleverresa  with  which  he  had  already 

concealed  witliin  it  the — well,  the  other  will,  and  then  made 

Yate-Westbury,  willy'txillji  an  unconscious  accomplice  in  the  act 

of  finding  it. 

"  They'll  none  of  them  fit,"  he  cried  at  last,  flingingthe  bunch 
iway  from  him  in  a  pretended  ill-temper.  ••  Alter  all,  it's  no 
business  of  mine  to  look.  Iris  can  try,  if  she  cares  to  investigate, 
when  she  coinea  down  from  the  mountains." 

He  knew  already  that  Yate-Westbury  prided  himself  not  a 
little  upon  his  mechanical  skill,  and  delicacy  of  wrist.  ♦•  Let  me 
have  a  try,",  the  doctor  said,  taking  the  keys  q'  \te  unsuspiciously 
from  the  table  where  Harold  had  flung  them.  "  A  gentle  twist 
often  succeeds  in  these  cases  where  strength  and  violence  are 
thrown  away  to  no  purpose." 

"  You  can  try  if  you  like,  but  they  wou't  fit."  Harold 
answered,  pettishly,  suppressing  his  anxiety,  and  feeling  with 
vague  fingers  for  the  abolished  button. 

Thus  challenged  to  the  trial,  and  put  upon  his  mettle,  Yate- 
Westbury  began  with  the  bunch  systematically,  and  pushed  each 
key  in,  one  after  tho  other,  till  he  came  to  the  original  identical 


262 


THB  TENTS  OF   8HSM 


skeleton  that  Harold  had  added  to  the  ring  in  the  aolitudA  of  hi'^ 
own  room  just  before  luncheon.  ' 

It  turned  in  the  lock  without  the  slightest  difficulty,  as  well  i 
night,  seeing  that  the  wards  and  hlanks  of  each  had  been  fittci 
lo  the  other  from  the  very  beginning. 

Yatp-Westbury  pulled  out  the  slide  entire.  It  wai  a  qmcr 
little  drawer— a  secret  drawer — stuck  inconspicuously  at  one  side 
of  the  davenport,  and  with  its  lock  concealed  by  an  obtrusive  pi<  cc 
of  ornamental  brass  work.  Nobody  knew  of  its  existence,  indeed, 
pave  only  Harold,  who  had  bought  this  very  davenport  of  set 
purpose  a  year  or  two  before  at  a  shop  in  Wardour  Street,  and 
p^nt  over  to  Algiers  as  a  present  to  his  uncle,  with  the  acute  idea 
that  such  a  receptacle  might  happen  some  day,  in  case  of  an 
pmergency,  to  come  in  bandy.  He  had  locked  the  drawer  and 
kept  the  key  himself  as  a  measure  of  precaution  lest  anythiny 
alien  should  ever  get  into  it.  So  deep  and  long  beforehand  ha- 1 
he  provided  against  contingencies.  He  prided  himself  not  a 
iittle  in  that  moment  of  triumph  on  his  extraordinary  prudence 
and  his  judicious  forethought. 

The  specialist  sat  down  in  an  easy  chair  in  the  corner,  and 
I'pgan  to  inspect  at  his  leisure  the  contents  of  the  drawer. 

"  What  have  you  there,  doctor  V  ifarold  asked,  banteringly, 
with  assumed  carelessness.  "Gold  and  silver  and  precious 
stones  1  The  wealth  of  Ormuz  and  of  Ind,  1  suppose.  Or  is  it 
only  Sir  Arthur's  youthful  love  letters  and  other  waste  paper?" 

"  Bills,"  Yate-Westbury  answered,  turning  over  the  papers 
1  osely  with  his  incautious  hand,    "  bi  Is,  bills — mostly  receipted. ' 

And  so  they  were.  For  Harold  had  been  at  the  pains  to 
acquire,  by  purchase,  a  large  number  of  those  incidental 
accompaniments  from  hia  uncle's  valot,  all  dated  Aix,  to  givt 
K I  eater  vraisemblance  to  the  discovery  of  the  will. 

''Nothing  more  than  thati"  Harold  asked,  with  clever  and 
Well-assumed  disappointment,  "I  expected  at  least  a  great 
Iloggarty  Diamond  I" 

"Nothing    more    than    that,"    the    doctor    responded,    cheer- 

liilly,   "Pour    acquit   on    every    one    of    them Stoi>. 

"ere,  what's  this  !  That  looks  rather  more  promising.  '  Wdl  ol 
M.ijor  General  Sir  Arthur  W^Uesley  Knyvett,  K.C.B.'  Whew  — 
I  say  !  Here's  the  old  gentleman's  la-t  will  and  testament  .... 
Why  this  can't  be  the  will  they  proved  in  London.  What  was 
the  date  of  that  one,  I  wonder  1  .  .  .  .  This  concerns  you. 
Knyvett  1     You'd  better  look  into  it." 

Harold    came    over    with    a£Pected     nonchalanee,    hia    fingers 


niS   TBNTS    or   SHBMU 


268 


and 


frmtching  horribly  none  the  less  all  the  while,  and  the  corners  ol 
his  mouth  quivering  hard  with  excitement.  He  looked  over 
Yate-Westbury's  shoulder  as  the  doctor  read.  The  great 
specialist  whistled  low  and  long  to  himself  as  he  saw  the  terms 
of  the  strangely  recovered  document.  "  By  Jove,"  he  cried, 
looking  up,  "  this  is  luck  for  you,  Knyvett ;  *  Revoke  all  former 
wills  absolutely,  and  leave  my  entire  estate,  real  and  personal, 
without  remainder,  to  my  dutiful  nephew,  Harold  Knyvett,  of 

the  Board  of  Trade,  London,  Esquire,' Then,  my  dear 

fellow — there's  no  mistake  about  it — you're  the  owner  of  Sidi  Aia 
yourself,  after  all.  Upon  my  soul,  I  congratulate  you — I  con- 
gratulate you." 

In  the  triumph  of  the  moment,  the  room  swam  round  about 
Harold  Knyvett's  brain.  His  plot  had  succeeded,  succeeded  to 
the  letter  I  Everything  had  turned  out  exactly  as  he  intended  ! 
Yate-Westbury,  not  he,  had  found  the  missing  will.  No  tinge 
of  suspicion  would  ever  now  attach  to  hisvname.  Not  even  that 
old  fool,  Tom  WliitniArsh  himself,  could  find  any  flaw  in  the 
wording  or  the  attestation — all  had  been  done  in  strict  accord- 
ance with  the  simplest  and  moc«  indisputable  forma  laid  down  in 
Lord  St.  Leonard's  excellent  little  handbook.     He  felt  himself 

already  the  monarch  of  all  he  surveyed  at  Sidi  Aia He 

had  Iris  at  his  feet  I     She  must  marry  him  or  be  beggared  I 

For  a  minute  he  could  hardly  gasp  out  in  jerks  a  few  inarticu- 
late words  to  the  doctor,  "  You'd  better  keep  it You 

found  it,  not  I It  must  be  duly  proved,  and  all  that 

sort  of  thing.  ....  Till  then,  it  should  remain  in  your  posses- 
sion." 

"  A  worse  thing  to  have  happened  to  him,  in  his  frame  of 
mind,"  Yate-Westbury  said  to  his  assistant  that  night,  as  they 
sat  alone  together  in  his  httle  consulting-room,  "  I  can  hardly 
imagine.  "Whether  he  forged  it  or  whether  he  found  il  doesn't 
much  matter.  In  either  case,  the  episode's  deplorable — simply 
deplorabie.  He  was  on  the  very  verge  of  acute  dementia,  even 
before  the  will  turned  up.  This  miserable  excitement  will  upset 
everything.  Vnd  qow,  no  doubt,  hail  come  into  th*  property  a 
caving  liuuaUo." 


was 
you. 


m 


na  tfeNti  Of  iBut. 


f- 


CHAPTER  XLIIi 


PBBTENOB   OR  REALITT  I 


i-.-^ 


;  -^  •  .•' 


.5  /rrt"-* 


■•:vii 


Tn  tho  dead  of  the  night — of  that  same  awful  night— Haroli'! 
Kn^vett  lay  upon  his  bed  awake,  and  heard  the  clock  on  Yate- 
''^'eatbury'B  stairs  clang  out  the  hours,  one  by  one,  monotonouslv 
A  dreary  old  clock,  with  a  cracked  voice.  So  long  and  terrible  a 
twenty-four  hours  he  had  never  known  ;  they  dragged  their  slow 
length  with  relentless  deliberation.  His  accomplished  crime 
was  beginning  'already  its  Nemesis  upon  him. 

One  of  Yate-VVestbury's  patients  kept  him  awake — a  joor  mad 
woman,  chattering  and  moaning  ! 

Weary  at  last  with  much  copsing  and  turning, ,  he  rose  up,  and 
I  •  ked  out  of  the  little  Moorish  arcaded  window,  The  moon- 
-ht  was  pouring,  in  full  pale  green  floods,  on  the  white  walls 
Ml  d  flat  roofs  of  Sidi  Aia  next  door — his  house,  his  own  house, 
^^hiphjie  had  procured  for  himself  by  his  own  wise  forethought, 
tiiicl  his  own  clever  handicraft.  That  bad  old  man  Sir  Arthur 
^^co^t'ound  him  lor  a  coward  !),  had  never  had  the  c6urage  to  do 
ihe  right  thing,  and  to  make  a  plain  will,  in  accordance  with 
vommon  honesty  and  friehdliness  and  justice,  Hut  never  mind  ; 
he,  Harold  Knyvett,  had  taken  the  matter  boldly  in  hand,  like 
a  man  of  mettle,  and  shrunk  not  from  the  terrors  of  the  law,  or 
the  commnuplaces  of  morality,  in  his  determination  that  sub- 
stantial right  should  at  la.st  be  done  him.  With  infinite  skill 
Hud  patience  and  boldness,  out  of  the  nettle  Danger  had  he 
plucked  for  himself  the  flower  Safety. 

The  moonlight  played  exquisitely  upon  those  high  white  walls 
of  Sidi  Aia.  The  shadows  of  the  arches  came  out  by  contra^t  iu 
delicate  tones  of  faint  gr'^'U  ;  the  capitals  of  the  pillars  gleamed 
bright  and  beautiful  with  silvery  radiance.  Anything  more 
lovely  in  its  way  he  had  never  seen.  So  romantic,  so  poetical, 
po  fit  for  himself  and  Iris  to  live  in  :  for  the  intoxication  q£  love 
(or  what  answered  to  it  in  Harokl  Knyvett's  nature)  was  mixed 
now  in  his  brain  with  the  meaner  intoxication  of  accomplished 
villiany.     And  it  vras  all  his,  his  ;  he  had  secured  it  for  himself ; 


THX    TKMia    or   SHSM. 


866 


-j^ 


he  had  carved  hia  own  fortune  with  his  own  bold  hand  ;  h«  had 
made  himself,  at  one  blow,  rioh,  unassailable,  muoh  to  be 
envied. 

Happy,  happy,  happy,  Harold  t  Rich,  unassailable,  muoh  to 
be  envied  ! 

But  sleep  he  could  not,  for  all  his  wealth.  The  excitement 
had  driven  away  drowsiness  from  his  eyelids.  He  lay  down  once 
more  on  his  bed  uneasily  and  tried  to  escape  from  that  flood  of 
thought  that  inundated  his  consciousness  with  teeming 
images.  His  brain  whirled  round  and  round  in  a  fever  of  think- 
ing. He  must  repeat  something  over  and  over  again  to  calm 
and  appease  that  internal  whirlwind.  He  must  say  A  B  C  a 
hundred  times  over,  according  to  the  old  formula,  or  picture  to 
himself  sheep  leaping  over  a  gate,  or  count  his  fingers  till  he  was 
tired  and  drowsy.  All,  all,  alas  !  of  no  avail !  ABC  became 
to  him  a  romantic  tune,  and  set  itself  mentally  to  an  air  of  Men- 
delssohn's. The  sheep  that  leaped  over  the  gate  figured  them- 
selves vividly  as  individual  pictures,  in  every  conceivable  ovine 
variety  of  fleece  and  attitude.  The  ends  of  his  fingers  as  he 
counted  them  to  himself  seemed  instinct  with  extraordinary  and 
unnatural  sensitiveness — too  much  alive,  he  somehow  imagined, 
like  his  brain  itself,  whicii  .vaa  working  too  hard  for  the  fibres 
that  composed  it. 

And  then,  in  a  vague,  dieainy,  unrelated  way,  he  thought  of 
those  words  Yate-^Yestbury  was  fond  of  repeating  so  often — 
Yate-Westbury,  with  his  odious  professional  habit  of  regarding 
all  mankind  as  potential  lunatics.  "  Madmen  live  a  great  deal 
too  fast :  their  nervous  system  burns  itself  out  at  the  rate  of 
three  days  in  the  twenty-four  hours.  " 

Not  that  he  for  one  moment  applied  them  to  himself.  He 
merely  recollected  them  in  a  dreamy  way  as  an  apt  illustration 
of  his  present  state.  He  was  so  excited  and  overwrought  with 
this  one  absorbing  plan  of  action  that  his  mind,  too,  like  the 
madman's,  in  spite  of  its  clearness,  was  working  too  fast  and 
working  too  vividly.  Images  and  ideas  crowded  in  upon  him 
with  wild  haste  one  after  the  other.  He  saw  and  heard  and 
felt  and  thought  with  abnormal  keenness  and  mtensity  of  sensa- 
tion. 

Not,  again,  that  he  was  insane,  or  anything  like  it.  Oh,  no, 
uadeed,  He  had  never  thought  things  out  more  logically  or 
consecutively  in  his  life.  He  was,  if  anything,  saner  than  usual 
—perfectly  collected,  sensible,  clear  headed.  Ideas  came  to  him 
now  with  a  force  and  directness  they  }xad  never  before  in  his  life 


266 


THB    T£NT8    OF    BHEM. 


posseased.  He  could  see  tlirongh  a  brick  wall,  so  piercing  wa.^ 
his  vision.  No  clouds  or  mists  obscured  liis  mental  sight.  And 
he  was  brilliant,  too — undeniably  brilliant.  Efe  thought  he 
could  write  poetry  in  hia  present  mood — he,  who  had  hitherto 
despised  it  aa  mere  sentimentality.  At  any  rate,  he  talked  aii 
day  long  yesterday,  with  tliat  pompous  old  fool  for  sole  hearer, 
a.s  he  had  never  before  talked  in  the  most  sparkling  drawing 
rooms  of  London  society.  As  a  rule,  one  requires  an  audience  to  « 
stimulate  one.  Dut  not  so  now.  Such  point,  such  repartee, 
sucli  wit,  such  scnitillations  !  He  had  fairly  astonished  himself 
throughout  the  day  by  his  own  perfect  fluency  and  flashes  of 
inspiration. 

Yet  somehow  he  wished  to  goodness  he  could  only  get  Yate- 
VVestbury's  perpetual  small-talk  out  of  his  head  this  evening. 
That  man's  stock  remarks  seemed  to  dog  and  haunt  him. 

"  You  need  never  be  afraid  of  going  mad,"  the  fellow  said,  "  if 
you  think  you're  going  mad.  It's  when  you  feel  yourself  sanest 
that  you're  most  in  danger.  People  in  the  incipient  stages  of 
insanity  always  flatter  themselves  that  never  in  their  hves  were 
they  so  lucid  and  coherent.  They  mistake  the  perfect  clearness 
and  vividness  of  their  morbid  impressions  for  exceptional  sound- 
ness and  sobriety  of  thought.  They  imagine  themselves 
cleverest  when  they're  really  maddest." 

Hang  it  all  I     Would  the  man  never  get  off  his  horrid  hobby-  : 
horse  ?     What  could  be  more  depressing  to  a  sane   person — 
such  as  himself — than  this  incessant  harping  upon  the  symp- 
toms of  insanity  I     Do  we  all  of  us  want  to  be  always  mad- 
hunting  ? 

But,  oh,  for  a  sleep,  for  a  moment's  sleep  I  How  his  eyelids 
burned  and  tingled  and  smarted  I  So  rich,  so  successful,  and 
yet  no  sleep!     The  words  roused  a  latent  cloud  in  his  memory. 

"  Sleep,  gentle  sleep,  nature's  soft  nurse,  how  have  I  frighted 
thee  ?  "  How  well  he  remembered  learning  those  lines  long 
ago  at  Winchester  I  It  was  on  a  half-remedy  afternoon,  he 
recollected  as  distinctly  as  if  it  were  yesterday  ;  and  he  took  out 
the  book  with  him  to  Moab  to  learn  his  piece  (they  called  it 
Moab  because  it  was  the  lavatory,  and  ••  Moab  is  my  wash- 
pot  ") ;  and  the  Prefect  of  the  Tub  caught  him  sneaking  away 
there,  and  sent  him  back  with  the  book,  whimpering,  to  his  ■ 
scob  ;  how  near  it  all  seemed  1  how  vivid  I  how  Ufe-like  I 

And  then  his  imagination  wandered  off  once  more  by  devious 
trnc  ks  to  those  old  Winchester  days  in  all  their  freshness.  So 
many  little  things  crowded  back  on  his  memory.     He  remem- 


TBI    TKNT8    OP    SHEM. 


867 


Vi 


'»  I.  tl  how  hfl  liad  chiselled  the  Prefect  of  the  Hall  out  of  half-a 
I"  >  II  outt  (lay,  on  u  transaction  in   stamps,  by   selling  him  a 

M nor  wdodcut  imitation,    removed  from  a   catalogue,    for  ; 
liwaiian  two-cent;  and  how  the   Prefect,  when  he  found  ou 
he  iii^M'tiioiis  fraud,  had  niiide  him  eat  the  catalogue  entire,  t( 
!iH  (hHtiiict  imperilraont  of  his  previous  digestion.     Paper  is  su 
••ly,  vury  jiinutritious  1     He  remembered  how  the  Posers  came 
lown  from  Oxford  on  the  Tuesday  after  St.  Thomas's  Day  ;  and 
how  thuy  worn  greeted  ad  porta*  with   a  Latin  oration  by  the 
senior  HuholarH  ;  and  how  he  himself  had  sent  in  a  first  copy  of 
verHua  to  the  Posers  which  tiecured   him  the  Exhibition  ;  and 
liow,  being  uncertain  about  the  gender  of  ventis,  he  had   written 
tliG  adj«!ctivo  intended  to  agree  with  its  accusative  in  so  doubtful 
a  way  that  you  might  make  it  either  validum  or  validam,  accord- 
ing to  the  taste  or  fancy  of  the  reader.     At  vim   voce,  the  Poser 
handed  him  tJie  paperacross  the  table  and  asked  him  severely  in 
I  Htorn  voice  for  which  it  was  meant ;  and  Harold,  having  settled 
chu  point  artfully  with  the  dictionary  meanwhile,  answered  in 
accordauco  with  his  later  knowledge,  of  course,  in  a  surprised 
tone,  80  winning  the  Exhibition  by  his  cuteness  from  that  dull 
follow,  Parker,  who  had  fallen   into  exactly  the  selfsame  trap, 
hut  had  written  bo  plainly  (like  a  fool  as  he  was)  that  the  Posers 
never  hoaiiatod  for  a  moment  to  detect  his    error.     Parker  was 
ilway^i  a  poor  spiritless  creature.     He  was  slaving   now  on  a 
hundred  a  year  as  a  curate  in  Hampshire,  while  he,  Harold,  by 
his  energy  and  skill,  was  the  master  of  Sidi  Aia  and  a  splendid 
fortune  I 

Parker's  scob  was  270.  •'  Scob  "  was  "  box  "  in  Winchester 
alang.  Tlje  paint  was  worn  on  the  left-hand  side.  It  was 
^Miawed  a  bit  on  the  cover  within  by  a  white  mouse  tliat  Parker 
tried  to  keep  there  for  a  pet  without  the  knowledge  of  the  com- 
tnoners. 

And  then,  In  a  horrible  burst  of  revelation,  these  words  of 
Yate-WuHtbury's,  in  his  •'  Treatise  on  the  Diseases  of  the  Ner 
\'ou8  Syatoin,"  camo  back  to  hira  with  a  rush  :  **  The  patieni 
exhibits  a  remarkable  tendency  in  these  sleepless  periods  todweh 
with  minute  and  exaggerated  detail  upon  long  past  events  or 
diildiHh  reminiscences.  This  symptom  in  particular  I  regard 
as  peculiarly  indicative  of  approaching  insanity  ;  when  coupled 
with  a  twitching  of  the  fingers  and  involuntary  movements  of 
the  lips  or  facial  muscles  it  is  almost  diagnostic  of  the  incipient 
iJta;.!:eH  of  acute  dementia." 

Aoute  dttiuentia  I     Acute  dementia  t     Acute  dementia  I    With 


268 


Til£    TKMTI    OV 


a  flash  of  recognition,  in  an  rpny  of  terror,  he  saw  it  all.  Ho 
recognized  the  inevitabiti.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he 
realised,  at  one  blow,  the  hideous  fact  that  the  symptoma  he  hai 
heen  simulating,  or  thought  himself  simulating,  were  all  at 
bottom  really  there.  The  twitching  of  the  mouth,  the  nervous 
movement  of  the  hands  and  fingers,  tlie  forgetfulness  of  names, 
of  words,  of  phrases,  the  intense  recollection  of  childish  scenes  1 
Great  heavens,  it  was  horrible,  incredible,  but  true  !  It  was  no 
pretence,  but  a  solemn  reality  1  He  was  going  mad  with  success 
— with  selfish  triumph — with  self-centred  complacency  ! 

Yate-Westbury's  mad  people  were  chattering  up  above  there  I 
The  idea  flashed  across  him  now  with  a  horrible  rividnesi :  he 
himself  was  only  one  of  Yate-Westbury's  mad  people  I 

Then,  for  a  single  second,  in  a  sudden  outburst  of  inspired 
self-revelation,  as  by  an  electric  spark,  the  whole  naked  truth  of 
his  own  ingrained  nature  came  home  to  him  all  at  once  in  all  its 
vulgar  and  sordid  hideousness.  He  was,  indeed,  just  such  a  man 
as  Yate-Westbury  pictured  his  ideal  type  of  the  insane  tempera- 
ment— cold,  selfish,  unfeeling,  narrow  ;  incapable  of  expansive 
or  symp.^thetic  thought ;  careless  of  the  good  or  ill  of  others ; 
pursuing  to  the  end  with  relentless  calmness  his  own  personal 
schemes  for  his  own  personal  aggrandisement.  Not  often  is  it 
given  us  in  a  moment  of  truth  to  see  ourselves  for  an  indivisible 
fraction  of  time  in  the  vivid  liglit  of  an  awakened  inner  sense  ; 
but  to  Harold  Knyvett,  one  of  those  rare  moments  occurred  just , 
then  among  the  paroxysms  of  insanity  in  the  night  watches. 
For  one  lucid  second,  he  knew  himself  mad;  he  knew  himself 
bad;  he  knew  himself  mean;  he  knew  himself  worthless.  He 
had  wrouglit  his  own  ill-will  in  his  own  vile  way,  and  now,  he 
would  be  opulent,  wealthy,  a  lord,  a  king — in  a  raad-house  ! 

They  could  never  take  it  away  from  him,  even  in  a  mad-house. 
Come  what  might,  he  had  at  least  humbled  that  girl  Iris's  pride, 
and  checkmated  that  meddling  old  fool  Whitmarsh.  He  had 
earned  it  all,  with  his  own  right  hand  I  The  property  was  his — 
were  it  only  in  a  raad-house  I 

Was  it  worth  going  through  so  much  to  win  so  little  ? 
"  What  shall  it  profit  a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole  world  and 
lose  his  own  soul  ?  "  And  Harold  Knyvett  had  lost  his  own 
soul,  in  the  most  literal  sense — ruined  his  intellect — destroyed 
his  reason  I 

He  knew  it,  he  felt  it,  in  a  revulsion  of  horror.  If  he  could,  he 
would  have  burnt  that  vile  forgery  to  ashes  that  one  remorseful 
moment.     But  he  couldn't — he  couldn't.     Yate-Westbury  had 


11 
s 
a 
a 
s 
a 
h 
h 


«n   TINTS   or    lUJlM. 


%$9 


i'ounc!  It — Yate-Westbury  was  keeping  It  I  Yat«-Westbury  was 
the  guardian  of  that  damning  paper! 

For  hours  he  lay  there  and  tossed  in  agonj.  Mad,  mad  !  he 
knew  it.     How  horrible  I  how  f/hr-stl'  t 

The  other  mad  people,  wprt' tin' i,i  niipj  up-stairs.  Sidi  Aia 
would  now  be  only  his  asylum. 

Slowly  the  morning  dawned  oiice  more — that  morning  thai 
dawned  on  Eustace  and  Menem  among  the  Djuijura  slopes,  on 
Vernon  lilake  and  Iris  in  the  beitja^'uered  fortress.  The  light 
broke  pink  over  tlie  snow-clad  mountains  in  the  dim  distance. 
Harold  Knyvett  fell  asleep  of  tnn-e  fatigue.  In  his  dreams,  he 
dreamt  of  Sidi  Aia  and  riches. 

When  he  woke  again  the  ri).o.l  was  broken.  Daylight  brings 
far  other  thoughts  m  its  train.  He  laughed  at  his  fears.  Mad  ! 
he  wu  •  never  more  sensible  in  his  life.  A  little  nervoua  twitch- 
ing iii  his  lingers,  no  doubt ;  but  who  wouldn't  be  nervous  at 
such  a  crisis  ?  Even  if  the  symptoms  were  a  trifle  uncan?iy — 
and  he  didn't  deny  he  was  somewhat  excited — he  would  fight 
a.L,'ainst  them  hard,  and  battle  them  down  like  a  man,  if  neces- 
sary. It  is  not  good  for  man  to  live  alone — Yate-Westbury 
always  advised  marriage ;  and  when  he  was  married  to  Iris  at 
last,  why  Iris  would  keep  him  straight  and  sane  enough.  A 
lieautiful  wife,  and  a  splendid  fortune  I  Mad  indeed,  says  Yftt-e- 
Wttituuryl     Fool,  doit,  pig,  idiut  I 


'r 


■''--"'      <»  "*-^ ■■  *v -'*-^-  '■''         ^.  .f"  t  V'*  ■ 


i 


-70 


VUh.    TAMTI   Ot 


/ 


CHAPTER  XLm. 


REVOLUTION. 


In  the  Rest  Honae  at  Beni  Mansour  the  good  Grey  Sist«rs  did 
their  best  after  the  accident  for  Eustace  Le  Marchant.  His 
wounds,  indeed,  were  less  severe  than  might  at  first  have  been 
anticipated,  for  it  was  rather  the  mere  force  of  the  concussion 
that  had  rendered  him  insensible  for  the  time  being  than  any 
distinct  internal  injury.  Thanks  to  the  softness  of  the  sand  and 
the  position  in  which  he  fell,  no  bones  were  broken.  He  was 
weak  and  shaken  with  his  terrible  jolting,  to  be  sure,  but  not  in 
any  way  permanently  disabled. 

For  an  hour  or  two  he  lay  unconscious  on  She  bed  where  the 
sisters  placed  him  ;  then,  about  midday,  he  opened  his  eyes, 
with  a  start,  once  more,  and  asked,  feebly,  in  French,  ••Where's 
Meriem  ?  " 

The  sisters  understood  at  once  whom  he  meant. 

•*  Hush,"  one  of  them  said,  soothing  his  pillow  gently  ;  ••  yon 
mustn't  talk  yet.  You're  far  too  weak  for  that.  Mademoiselle's 
in  the  next  room.  She's  seriously  hurt,  but  not,  we  hope,  in 
any  immediate  danger."  -      ,. 

They  took  it  for  granted  that  Meriem,  too,  was  a  European, 
merely  disguised  in  Kabyle  dress  for  purposes  of  safety. 

*'  Seriously  hurt  I"  Eustace  repeated  with  a  gasp,  raising  him- 
self all  at  once  on  his  elbows  in  the  bed.  "  Seriously  hurt! 
Why,  what  on  earth  has  happened  ?  She  didn't  get  in  the  way 
of  the  train,  then,  did  she  ?  " 

•*  She  ran  along  the  line,  flinging  up  her  arms  in  vain  to 
attract  attention,  for  fear  the  engine  should  run  over  you,"  the 
sister  answered  ;  •*  and  the'  train  knocked  her  down,  though  it 
did  not  crush  her.  But  you  must  be  tjuiel  now.  We  can't  allow 
you  to  talk  any  more  at  present." 

Eustace  threw  himself  back,  and  lay  quiet  for  awhile  with  the 
greatest  di£&culty.     He   was  buruing  to  know  how  Meriem  got 


-.  I 


wm 


THS    nCNTI   or    IHKU. 


271 


on.  Ha  wanted  to  see  her,  to  assure  himself  of  her  safety.  But 
the  sisters  put  him  off  from  time  to  time  with  the  formal  report. 
*•  She's  doing  very  well,  but  not  yet  conscious.  You  must  leave 
these  things  to  us  who  understand  tham.  The  doctor  expects 
her,  with  care,  to  recover." 

Oh,  but  the  hours  seemed  painfully  long  to  wait,  with  Meriem 
in  danger  so  close  at  hand  ;  and  with  no  possibility  of  getting 
up  to  go  to  her  I  Yet  it  was  some  sad  comfort  to  Eustace  even 
to  think  it  was  for  his  sake  she  braved  that  dnn^'er.  For  his 
sake  ?  Well,  perhaps  not  entirely  that  I  Nay,  lor  Vernon's,  in 
the  end,  since  upon  Eustace's  safety  depended  the  chance  of 
relieving  St.  Cloud,  and  so  saving  Iris  and  Vernon. 

Yet  for  the  time  being  he  ^1buld  lay  that  flattering  unction  to 
his  soul,  and  believe  it  was  partly  for  his  sake  she  threw  herself 
so  bravely  before  the  approaching  engine.  He  knew  he  would 
have  braved  far  more  himself  for  her  sake  any  day. 

The  hours  moved  on»  wearily,  wearily. 

At  last,  towards  nightfall,  a  sound  of  talking  I  He  raised 
himself  up  in  the  bed  and  listened.  Through  the  open  door 
between  the  rooms,  a  faint  voice  came  from  Meriem's  bedside. 

"  Can  any  one  speak  English  ?  "  it  murmured,  plaintively. 

A  great  joy  throbbed  through  Eustace  Le  Marchant's  soul. 
It  was  Meriem's  voice ;  thin  and  weak,  but  Meriem's.  Hia 
heart  leaped  up  into  his  mouth  for  delight  1  Thank  heaven,  she 
was  safe  !    she  was  once  more  conscious  1 

"  I  can,  just  a  leetle,"  one  sister  replied,  vnth  a  pretty  twang. 
*'  What  is  zat  you  want  ?    Some  drink  ?    some  water  ?  " 

The  answer  drove  him  wild  with  delight  and  astonishment. 

"  Is  Eustace  safe  ?  "  Meriem  cried  out,  eagerly.  "  The  man 
on  the  bridge.  You  know  who  I  mean.  Did  he  get  across  all 
right  ?    Did  the  train  run  over  him  ?  " 

Eustace's  heart  gave  one  wild  bound.  **  Is  Eustace  safe  f  '* 
were  the  first  words  she  uttered  I  He  could  hardly  believe  his 
ears  for  joy.  What  could  be  the  meaning  of  so  much  anxiety  ? 
It  was  he,  she  first  asked  for  ;  himself,  not  Vernon.  His  cup 
was  full.     It  was  he  who  came  nearest  to  her  heart  that  moment. 

*•  No,  Le  is  not  dead,"  the  sister  answered  gently,  in  a  sooth- 
ing voice.  "  He  has  fallen  from  ze  bridge  upon  soft  ground 
undemeas.  He  is  shaken  by  ze  fall  and  much  hurted.  But  he 
has  no  limb  broken,  we  find,  and  he  has  not  any  danger." 

•*  Thank  God  I  "  Meriem  cried.  ••  Where  is  he  ?  Where  is 
he?" 

"  In  ze  next  room,  close  by,"  the  sister  answered,  with  a  warn- 


279 


tu  TBNVf  99  inai. 


ing  inflexion.     **  But  you  must  not  go  to  him,  my  dtu ;  yon  trt 

much  too  sick.     He  is  your  brozzer,  zen,  is  he  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  1  "  Meriem  answered,  with  her  mountain  franknaii ; 
"  he's  not  my  brother,  He's  only  a  friend — a  very  dear  friend. 
But  I  want  to  see  him — I  want  to  see  him,  oh,  e';er  so  badly.'* 

Her  words  sounded  stranger  and  stranger  in  his  ears.  Eustaoe 
could  hardly  take  it  all  in.  So  much  thought  for  him,  so  little 
for  Vernon. 

There  was  a  seoond'i  pause,  then  Meriem  spoke  once  more. 
"  Is  there  news  from  St.  Cloud  ?  "  she  asked,  anxiously,  "  Have 
they  relieved  the  Fort  there  ?  " 

"We  know  nozzing  for  certain  yet?  "  the  sister  answered, 
with  patient  gentleness.  "  We  must  wait  and  J  earn  ;  it  ii  long 
to  hear.  Ze  Maire  haai  telegraphed  zis  morning  to  Tizi-Ouzou 
to  send  assistance,  and  since  zat  time  we  heard  nozzing.  .  .  . 
You  have  friends,  at  St.  Cloud,  perhaps;?  Yon  have  brozzeri 
zere  ? — parents  ?  " 

'•  No»**  Meriem  answered  once  more,  .with  hor  rllrect  simplicity, 
"but very  dfiar  £ciendsr-a  cousin . .  .  .  auU  a  lover." 

Eustace's  heart  sank  down  aga>in  to  zejo.  Yet  wbftt  else  mi 
earth  could  he.  possibly  have  expected  ?  Her  interest  in  him 
was  natural  enough,  of  course;  he  was  the  last  person. she  had 
seen  befora  her  accidents— the  one  most  recently  left  in  direst 
dimgex:.  But  that  was  all.  He  was  only  a  friend.  Yemon,  her 
lover,  was  still  first  favourite. 

The  doors  throughout  the  Best  House  were  all  kept  open  (hot- 
climate,  fashion),  as  in  almost  all  Algerian  houses,  and  the  con- 
versation in  the  next  room  was  distinctly,  audible  to  him  aa.if  ii 
had  taken  place  at  his  own  bedside. 

-.  Meriem  seemed  to  fling  herselt  back  on  her  pillow.  "  Well," 
she  said  aloud,  but  half  musing  to  heraelf*  "if  Bustaoe  ii.iafe,  I 
shall  die  happy." 

**Zen  he  it  a  lover,  too,  ii  he  f*  the  sifter  asked,  quaintly, 
with  that  not-ungraceful  curiosity  into  the  affairs  of  the  heairt 
which  all.  her  kind  often  display,  towardi  that  si^e  of  life  they 
have  deUberately  abandoned 

"Well,  a  very  dear  friend,"  Meriem  answered,  v^ith.  emotion, 
"  I  don't  know  how  to  call  it.  A  vtry  dear  friend.  I  mu$t  get 
up  and  see^him  at  onc6.  I  refblly  must.  Oh,  do,  plfaielet 
me  get  up  now  to  visit  him  I  " 

."No,  no»"  the.  aiiter  answered,  "you  must  lie  where  you  art. 
I  cannot  let  you  get  up  just  now.  It  is  against  our  rule.  We  do 
not  allow  ze  patients  to  move.    You  must  not  see  hia." 


THS  -  TENT*   mW   BHiCM. 


178 


For  a  long,  long  time  nothing  uiuie  wuh  said.  Only  ihe  sound 
of  deep  breathing  oould  be  heard.  At  last  Meriem  broke  tho 
lilencu  once  more. 

*'  I  wisli  we  could  hear  from  St.  Cloud,"  ihe  said  eagerly.    "I 

wonder  whether  Vernon's  safe,  an<l  Iris And  ray  uncle.     If 

I  lave  ono,  J  may  lose  the  other." 

••  Zen  you  have  an  uncle  at  St.  Cloud  ?  "  the  sister  asked,  with 
interest. 

••  No,  not  at  St.  Cloud,"  Meriem  answered,  simply.  "  That  is 
to  say,  not  in  the  Fort,  at  least.  Among  the  other  party.  He's 
gone  there  to  fight  against  the  Christians,  you  know.  He's  t 
Kabyle,  of  course.     He's  the  Amine  of  the  Beni-Merzoug." 

Eustace  fairly  laughed  in  his  bed  with  amusement  at  the  voioa 
of  horror  in  which  the  good  sister  ejaculated, 

"  To  fight  against  ze  Christians  I  Your  uncle  a  Kabyle  I  Ze 
Amine  of  ze  Beni-Merzoug  I  Mon  Dieu,  quel  horreur  (  Zen  you 
are  not  of  our  side — you  are  not  an  Englishwoman  I  " 

••  No,"  Meriem  replied,  "or  at  least,  only  half  one.  I  speak 
English,  but  I'm  Algerian  born.  My  mother  was  a  Kabyle,  and 
I've  lived  all  my  life  up  yonder  on  the  Djurjura." 

*•  And  him  ?  Ze  gentleman  sat  fell  on  ze  bridge — ze  one  zat 
talk  such  perfect  French — he  is  not  Kabyle,  he,  too  ?  He  is  a 
true  European  ?  " 

"  He's  an  Englishman,"  Meriem  said.  •'  A  real  Englishman. 
And  I  must  see  him  1  Oh,  tell  me  how  he  is  !  Let  me  get  up 
this  minute.     I  must,  must  see  him  I "  -       • 

Eustace  could  stand  the  restrairit  no  longer. 

•*  Mericin,"  he  cried  out,  in  a  voice  that  trembled  and  quivered 
for  joy,  •*  I'm  alive  I  I'm  here  1  I  shall  be  all  right  soon.  Fm 
not  hurt.     There's  nothing  much  the  matter  with  me." 

At  the  sound  of  that  voice,  that  tremulous  voice,  Meriem  rose 
from  her  bed,  uncontrollable  now,  and  breaking  into  a  sudden 
toiTent  of  tears,  rushed  wildly  towards  the  place  whence  the 
words  came.  With  one  flood  of  emotion  she  burst  into  the  room, 
and  flung  herself  in  a  paroxysm  of  joy  and  delight,  upon 
Eustace's  bosom. 

••  Eustace,"  she  cried,  in  her  uncontrolled  passion,  before  that 
wondering  sister,  "  Eustace,  I'm  so  glad  I  I'm  so  pleased  I  I'm 
BO  happy  I  Oh,  Eustace,  how  could  I  ever  have  thought  as  I 
did  ?  I  see  it,  I  see  it  all  clearly  now.  It's  come  home  to  me 
with  a  burst.  I  know  my  own  heart.  «  •  •  »  Oh,  Eustace, 
(liUsiace  1    I  love  you  1    I  love  you  t  '* 


1 

i 
I 


274 


tax   TKNTS  or  SHEM. 


The  Englishman's  eyes  were  brimmed  with  teari.  He  brushes? 

ohera  away  hastily  with  the  Kabyle  dress  which  he  still  wore. 

'  Meriem,"  he  cried,  pressing  her  close  to  his  breast,  "  thia  is 

t,oa  much  joy.    Tell  me  how  it  has  all  come  aboui.    Tell  me  all, 

Meriem." 

The  Eabyle  girl  signed  with  her  hand  to  the  sister  to  go.  The 
nster,  wondering  and  doubting,  wiped  her  own  bright  eyes,  just 
limmed  by  most  unprofessional  moisture,  and  went  regretfully, 
for  she  would  fain  have  lingered.  Then  Meriem  gave  free  vent 
to  her  happiness  once  more.  She  knelt  down  on  the  floor  by 
'ilustace'i  bedside,  and  cried  silent  tears  of  joy  and  gratitude  to 
iee  that  he  was  alive  and  so  little  injured. 

'*  Meriem,"  Eustace  said  again,  "  tell  me  what  all  this  means. 
EIow  ....  have  you  so  soon  ....  forgotten  . 
.     .     ,     Vernon  ? " 

Meriem  flung  her  arms  desperately  around  his  neck  in  her 
transport.  "  Vernon  1 "  she  cried,  "  Vernon  1  who  talks  so 
of  Vernon  ?  What  made  me  ever  think  so  much  of  that  man,  I 
wonder  ?  As  I  stood  there  this  morning,  waiting  to  see  you 
jross  the  bridge,  and  that  horrible,  roarmg,  devouring  thing 
came  rushing  headlong  down  the  hill  to  destroy  you,  it  burst 
upon  me  Tke  a  flash  of  lightning,  how  mistaken  I'd  been,  and 
how  foolish,  and  how  wicked.  I  said  to  myself,  •  Oh,  God,  what 
have  I  done  I  Have  I  risked  his  life,  Eustace's  life,  that  precious 
life,  for  such  a  man  as  Vernon  ?  Why  he's  worth  ten  thousand 
like  Vernon  Blake,  and  he  loves  me  as  Vernon  could  never  love 
iny  one.  And  I  love  him,  too,  though  I  never  suspected  it. 
Love  him  deep  down  in  the  depths  of  my  heart  I  I'd  give  my 
life  up  this  moment  freely,  if  only  I  could  save  my  Eustace,  my 
Eustace.'  And  then,  before  the  hateful  thing  could  come  down 
and  crush  me,  I  remembered  everything — all — all — Uke  a  flash  ;  it 
loemed  to  come  across  me  in  a  rush,  like  fire,  how  good  you'd 
been  to  me,  and  how  kind  and  thoughtful,  and  how  forgetful  of 
yourself,  and  how  anxious  for  my  happiness.  And  I  said  to 
myself,  ••  Oh,  if  only  I  can  save  his  life  to-day,  I'll  tell  him  I 

shall  be  his  wife  befora  this  evening's  over And  I've  told 

you  now,  Eustace,  for  I  love  you,  I  love  yon  !  "     And  she  flung 
herself  passionately  once  more  upon  his  shoulder. 

••  And  then  ?  "  Eustace  asked,  in  an  ecbLacy  of  delight,  but 
repressing  himself  finniy. 

'•  And  then,  the  great  thing  cnme  rolling  and  roarin??  and 
hisanng  above  ma,  and  I  know  nutlung  more  except  that  i  loved 
/oa  and  hoped  I'd  be  in  time  to  stup  it  and  save  yoa." 


of 

to 


)ld 


}Ut 


!••■ 


ffHX  TSNTB    or  SHIM. 


ITI 


Eustace's  eyes  were  too  blind  to  a^e,  but  he  drew  tbtt  Leantifu] 
girl's  face  down  to  his  lips  with  one  hard  embrace,  and  kissed 
her  fall  rich  mouth,  with  eager  fire,  a  hundred  times  over.  For 
that  moment  he  would  have  risked  ten  thousand  bridges.  His 
heart  was  full ;  he  had  found  the  desire  of  many  days;  Meriem 
was  his  and  he  was  M'^riem's. 

"  And  only  a  Kabyl  m  ijJLrl  f*  said  the  scandalised  sisters,  ai 
ihey  peeped  in  hushed  awe,  round  the  deaeciated  dooxwaT 


lli 


it 


■■*ii 


fud 


S76 


KUJ£   XSMIH  HM   iUiii^iki. 


•:'U-» 


*  i-V'   ■>■ 


'   '  ) 


j:> 


.1 


Thkv  sat  ther*^  Iottt;.  hand  clasp'^d  i'^  mmI,  silently.  They 
jeded  no  vvurds  tu  tuil  ilnir  tale  ul  Ion.  iie  another.  There 
!re  moments  when  silence  is  the  proioii.iactrft  eloquence.  The 
i^nglish  toni^iie  is  a  very  Une  mstrumeiii  of  rational  thought  ; 
but  a  pressure,  a  thrill,  speaks  tlia  soiil's  own  language  far  better 
tliaii  the  English  tongue  can  speak  :t. 

Aleriem's  heart  was  one  vast  soa  of  wonder.     Now  that  the 

truth  had  flashed  upon  her  so  vividly,  so  intensely,  she  couldn't 

herself  understand  how  on  earth  she  had  managed  to  go  astraj 

and  miss  it.     Eustace  was  a  better  man  by  far  than  Vernon — 

nearer  to  herself,  truer,  nobler,  worthier  of  her.     As  she  fled 

>ackward  before  the  face  of  that  rushing  engine  in   the  grey 

lorning,  she  had  seen  it  all,  as  one  often  sees  to  the  very  centre 

id  core  of  things  in  a  great  crisis.     That  night  of  despair  in  the 

ountain-snow,  that  morning  of  peril  and   agony  on  the  bridge 

f  the  railway,  had   opened  her  eyes  to  his  real  tenderness  and 

•r  real  devotion.     The  danger  she  had  braved  for  him  made 

■r  love  him.     She  bent  over  his  hand  now  and   kissed  it  fer- 

ntly.     She  was  ashamed  of  her  blindness.     The  vivid  picture 

I'Aistrice  in  deadly  peril  on  the  bridge  had  roused  her  with  f 

ish    to  the  consciousness  of  his  worth.     She  knew  she  had 

'losen  Uie  better  man.     Her  heart  was  glad,  but  it  beat  too  high 

r  one  wjio  has  just  escaped  so  pressing  a  danger. 

She  put   up  her  hand  to  her  breast,  instinctively,  to  lull  it. 

itli  a  sudden  thrill,  it  struck  her  that  a  familiar  touch  was 

uiting.     Day  and  night  she  had  knowni  it  there  so  long.     "  My 

arm  I  "  she  cried,  feeling  ahout  her  bare  neck  for  that  well- 

lown   trinket.     But  she  didn't  find    it.     The  chain  and    box 

id  pendants  were  gone.     Her  face  grew  pale  v/ith  a  terrified 

illor.     •*  Oh,   Eustace  I  "  she  burst  out  in  an  agony  of  fear, 

I've  lost  them  I     I've  lest  them  I     What  on  ^iarth's  become  o- 

hem?" 


tan   t1iX£H  Of  iHXll. 


id'n 


Eustaoe  looked  at  her  neck  close,  and  saw  ft  deep  red  marli 
pressed  into  the  throat  on  the  left  side.  It  was  the  spot  where 
the  fastening  of  the  chain  had  evidently  been  driven  by  main 
force  against  the  collar-bone.  "  I  think,  Meriem,"  he  said, 
"  the  charm  must  have  been  wrenched  ofiF  by  a  wheel  of  the 
locomotive,  or  caught  in  the  engine  when  the  train  passed  over 
you.  It's  lucky,  indeed,  it  was  only  that,  and  that  it  gave  so 
readily.  If  it  had  been  your  dress  that  caught,  you'd  have  been 
hurled  on  the  rails  and  mangled  terribly.  You  must  have  fallen, 
with  a  very  light  fall,  full  in  front  of  the  engine,  flush  between 
the  rails,  and  the  locomotive  must  have  knocked  you  down,  or 
barely  grazed  you,  and  then  passed  over  you  without  hurting 
you  any  further." 

Meriem  burst  into  tears  once  more.  "  Yusuf  put  it  on,"  she 
cried,  in  sore  distress  ;  "it  was  Yusuf 's  last  present.  I  loved  it 
for  Yusuf  .  .  .  But  that's  not  all.  If  it's  lost,  Eustace,  some- 
body else  may  perhaps  find  it ;  and  if  it  were  ever  to  get  into 
bad  hands — for  instance,  into  that  wicked  cousin's  of  Iris's  that 
Iria  told  me  about — I  can't  tell  you  what  mischief  might  come 
in  the  end  of  it." 

Eustace  laughed  a  merry  laugh  at  her  childish  superstition,  as 
he  naturally  thought  it.  "  My  dear  Meriem,"  he  answered,  with 
a  smile  of  superior  wisdom  he  could  hardly  repress,  "  you  don't 
really  believe  your  charm's  so  potent  that  Iris's  cousin  could 
make  witchcraft  against  her  with  it,  do  you  ?  What  on  earth 
has  your  locket  got  to  do  with  Iris's  cousin  ?  " 

Meriem  looked  back  at  him  with  a  scared  face.  *'  Its  not 
witchcraft,"  she  answered,  in  all  seriousness  ;  "  it  a  the  use  he'd 
make  of  it — the  things  he'd  find  in  it.  Oh,  Eustace,  I  won't 
teU  you  just  now,  I  think,  but  perhaps — perha^js  some  day  I'll 
tell  you.  We  must  find  that  charm,  whatever  happens.  I 
wouldn't  for  worlds  have  it  lost  or  mislaid,  or  let  it  get  into  that 
bad  man's  hands.   He  could  use  it  to  do  so  much  harm  to  Iris." 

Eustace  fancied  he  could  guess  her  meaning  vaguely,  but 
refrained  from  asking  any  questions  for  the  present. 

All  the  rest  of  that  day  Meriem  remained  in  a  most  uneasy 
frame  of  mind  about  the  loss  of  the  locket,  and  was  eager  to  be 
allowed  to  go  out  and  hunt  for  it.  That  course,  however,  the 
professional  nursing  instinct  of  the  sisters  most  emphatically 
vetoed,  and  she  was  forced  to  obey  them  by  mere  powerlessness. 
Early  next  morning,  tidings  arrived  of  the  relief  of  Bt.  Chmd  ; 
but  the  news  that  Iris  and  Vernon  were  safe  only  seemed  to 
increase  Meriem'g  anxiety  as  to  her  lust  trinket.     "  The  very 


"'I-  ■  • 


■  lO 


THB    TKNTS   OF    BHBM. 


first  moment  you're  well  enough,  Eustace,"  she  said  many  times 
over,  with  great  earnestness,  "  we  must  go  out  and  huat  up  and 
down  t!ie  line  for  Yusui' s  locket." 

Still  they  were  happy  days  for  Men'pm,  those  days  at  the  Rest 
House,  in  spite  of  the  terril)le  driblets  of  news  which  came  in 
to  them  slowly  from  time  to  time  of  the  desperate  fighting  and 
repulse  in  the  mountains.  Many  of  Meriem's  childish  friends 
had  been  killed  in  the  action,  as  she  learnt  by  degrees ;  while 
the  Amine  himself,  the  ringleader  of  the  revolt,  with  Hu'^sein, 
Ahmed,  and  the  Beiu-Merzoug  marabout,  had  lied  to  the  South 
to  the  free  Nomad  tribes  on  the  border  of  the  Desert,  where  they 
were  practically  safe  from  French  intervention.  lUit  the  more 
Meriem  heard  of  that  awful  outbreak,  the  less  and  less  did  the 
Kabyles  seem  to  her  mind  like  her  own  people. 

••  I  can  go  away  with  you  ever  so  much  more  easily  now. 
Eustace,"  she  said  one  day,  a,s  she  listened  with  a  face  of  horror 
to  the  ghastly  details  of  the  massacre  he  translated  to  her  from 
the  Depeches  Ahii'rienves,  while  he  lay  on  his  sofa  by  the  open 
window.  '*  I  have  no  part  with  them  left.  I  would  never  live 
among  those  wicked  people.  It  would  have  killed  me  with  shame 
if  mv  tribesmen  had  killed  Vernon  and  Ins." 

"  I'hen  you  won't  be  afraid  to  come  with  me  to  England  ?  " 
Eustace  asked,  half  doubtful. 

Meriem  folded  her  hands  meekly.  *•  Wherever  you  like.  Eus- 
l,ace,"  she  said,  with  tliat  perfect  trustfulness  a  true  woman 
rej)()se8  in  the  man  who  has  once  succeeded  in  winning  hei 
lieaj-l  from  her. 

There  was  a  little  pause.  Then  Meriera  sai<d  a!::ain,  leaninr^ 
over  him  close,  "  You  know  you're  marrying  only  a  poor  penni- 
less Kabyle  girl,  Eustace,  don't  you  ?  I've  renounced  all  claim 
to  that  great  soldier's  property  who  died  in  Algiers.  I  promised 
that  much  to  Ins  that  day  at  I3erii-Mer/oug,  ;ind  I  won't  go 
back  upon  it  now — not  even  for  your  sake,  Eustace." 

Eustace  smiled  a  quiet  smile  of  aci[uiescen(te.  "  I  know  that 
well,  dearest,"  he  answered,  taking  l,ier  hand  in  Ins.  "  I  shall 
love  you  all  the  better  if  I  can  work  for  yi)u  aiw.'vs,  and  feel  you 
owe  everything  you  have  in  the  world  to  me.  Let  Miss  Knyvett 
keep  her  money  to  herself.  She  and  Vernun  have  more  need 
of  it  than  you  and  I  will  have."  ; 

Meriem  pressed  his  hand  tenderly  with  naive  frankness.  Rh"e 
had  never  learnt  the  coquetry  or  the  reserve  of  our  civilised 
wcinng.     Pier  heart  spoke  out  its  own  language  freely. 

"  Tken  lome  day,"  she  said,  "  i  shall  teil  you  why  I  must 


TUB    TKNTg    OF    SHEM. 


270 


find  the  missing  locket.  You  can  guess,  perhaps;  but  T  don't 
understand  it  all,  even  myself.  I  only  know  that  if  that  bad 
man  were  ever  to  get  it,  he  might  do  more  harm  than  I  can  tell 
to  Iris." 

As  he  spoke,  Eustace  took  up  the  Deppches  he  had  been  hold- 
ing in  his  hand  loosely  by  his  side  witli  a  cry  of  astonishment. 
A  name  in  its  columns  had  rivetted  his  attention  on  a  casual 
side  glance.  ,, 

"  Why,  Meriem,"  he  exclaimed,  in  blank  wonder,  "  the  man's 
in  Algiers!  He's  stopping  this  minute  at  a  house  at  Mustapha — 
Lhe  very  place,  you  know,  where  Miss  Knyvett  has  her  villa. 
See  here,  it  just  caught  my  eye  by  pure  accident  ae  I  Jiappened 
to  look  down.  'Visitors'  List.'  That's  it.  'Villa  Rossine, 
Mustapha  ;  Harold  Knyvett,  Esq.,  Dr.  F.  Yate-Westbury.'  " 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?"  Meriem  asked,  in  vague  wonder. 

••  It  means  mischief,  I'm  sure,"  Eustace  answered,  slowly. 
"  It  means  he's  at  Algiers.  The  man's  come  over  here,  you  may 
be  perfectly  certain,  to  juggle  the  estate  away  from  Miss 
Knyvett." 

Meriem  rose  up  in  a  paroxysm  of  alarm.  "  Can  you  got  up, 
Eustace  ?"  she  asked,  eagerly.  We  must  go  out.  We  mutt  go 
ind  find  dear  Yusuf's  locket." 

How  English  she  was  after  all  in  her  heart  I  She  had  never 
cared  but  for  three  men  all  her  life,  and  all  three  were  English- 
men. The  Kabvle  was  but  the  outer  husk  ;  the  heart  and  core 
were  Enghsh  of  the  English. 

Eustace  rose  from  his  sofa  and  hobbled  out  to  help  her.  With 
trembling  steps  they  walked  'lown  the  ravine,  and  across  a  smail 
ford  one  of  the  sisters  showed  them  to  the  scene  of  the  accident. 
Eustace  went  down  on  his  knees  upon  the  lire  by  that  well- 
remembered  spot,  and  hunted  long  and  earnestly  for  the  missing 
lociiet.  Not  a  trace  con  Id  he  find  of  it  anywhere  about.  At  last, 
by  the  very  sleeper  wliere  Meriem  had  been  knocked  down,  he 
discovered  on  the  ground,  by  diligent  search,  two  wrenched  and 
broken  links  of  a  silver  chain.  The  locket  itself  then  must  have 
been  carried  on  further.  Encouraged  by  this  clue,  they  descended 
the  abrupt  ravine  once  more,  and  searched  the  dry  s^.ace  beneath 
the  bridge  with  all  eagerness  and  care  ;  but  not  a  sign  of  the 
charm  could  they  discover  anywhere.  If  it  had  dropt  in  the 
centre  and  fallen  into  the  river,  it  musl  ha-ve  been  swept  away 
long  since,  no  doubt,  by  the  rushing  torrent.  At  last,  Eustace 
sat  down  on  the  bank  wearied  and  <lespairing. 

"  It's  lost,"  he  said,  in  a  very  despondent  voice.  ••  Goot  ajto- 
ftther  and  left  no  traces,  Meriem." 


880 


TBX   TINTS  OP   8HBM» 


A  ludden  thought  flashed  across  Meriem's  brnfn.  ••  '"^ustftre," 
ih6  emd,  seizing  liii^  arm  hurriedly,  "the  luvn  on  tjie  ejigina 
•vent  back  for  me  with  their  carriage,  and  brou<j;ht  mo  across  the 
i)ridge  in  the  train,  you  remember.  1  wonder  if  they  could  iiave 
uken  it  off  my  neck,  on  purpose  ?  Do  yon  think  they  d  Iiave 
stolen  it  ?     Do  you  think  they'd  have  kept  it  ?  " 

"  We  might  make  inquiries,"  Eustace  answered,  with  a  sicrh. 
not  over-hopeful  of  this  new  and  forlorn  clue.  '•  But  1  dun  t 
suppose,  if  there  was  anything  of  any  value  to  any  one  in  the 
locket,  they'd  be  particularly  likely  to  give  it  up.  We  niifrjit  otter 
I  reward,  of  course:  the  thing  in  itself — to  anybody  but  you,  J 
mean,  Meriem — would  be  worth  a  few  francs  at  the  outside  as  a 
mere  trinket.  For  half  a  Napoleon  they'd  probably  i^e  giad  tu 
give  it  back  again." 

That  sura  was  untold  wealth  to  Meriem,  but  she  didn't  pau^e 
in  her  anxiety  just  tiien  to  notice  it.  "  Oh,  do  you  think.'  siie 
said,  in  a  tone  of  deep  distress,  "do  you  think,  Pjustnce,  they'd 
be  likely  to  take  it  to  that  man  at  Mustapha,  and  sell  il  bo  ban  to 
make  wliat  use  he  liked  of  it  ?  " 

•*  I  don't  see  how  on  earth  they  could  find  him  out,"  Eustace 
mswered  dubiously;  "or,  even  if  they  did,  how  they  could 
I'lssibly  know  the  locket  had  anything  in  the  world  to  do  with 
iim?" 

Meriem  set  her  lips  hard.    "  We  must  hunt  it  down,"  she  said, 

ivsolutely.      •'  We  must  hunt  it  down,  however  long  it  takes  us. 

[  couid  never  look  Iris  and  Vernon  in  the  face  again  unless  I  was 

uite  sure  I  hadn't  broken  mv  word  to  them.     I  said  to  Ins  that 

lay,  on  the  b  ilside  at  Beni-Merzoug — 1  said  it  quite  soleuinly 

— •  I    don't  want  the  money,  Iria,'  1  said,   it-e  yours.      Yoa 

nay  keep  it.'    And  I  wouldn't  for  the  world  Iris  should  e\cr  think 

1  tried  to  rob  her  either  of  that  or  of  Vernon.     Net  that  1  grudge 

ler  Vernon  now,  of  course,  Eustace.     My  eyes  are  opened,  and  I 

now  better  than  that.     But  I  want  not  to  rob  her  of  the  monev 

'ither,  for  I  love  her  dearly.     She's  the  only  woman  I  ever  nirt 

in  my  lil'e  wlio  could  treat  me  as  she  treated  me.      I  love  her  tor 

t,  and   it  would  break  my  heart   if  she  were  ever  to  tuaik   I 

v\'unted  to  rob  her." 

"  I  don't  believe  she  could  possibly  think  so,"  Enstnce 
iMswered,  with  quiet  confidence.  "  Nobody  could  ever  look  noon 
\n\\T  face,  Meriem,  and  not  see  that  you  were  truth  and  hout  sty 

Mu;iirii;lte." 

Meriem's  face  flushed  rosy  red.  *♦  Yusuf  was  like  that,"  she 
?aid,  in  her  simple  way.  "I  shall  always  be  pioud  to  btt  Lke 
VuRufs  dau{?hter." 


i>— 


)k>} 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

ON   THE    TKACK. 


( 


'"•  I 'TO  brolvfln  links  he  had  found  on  tht  railway  line  irre- 
i- :.«i:,i.M/  8U^'gustt)d  to  Eustace's  mind  the  probahility  that  the 
cliam  as  a  whole,  and  the  locket  with  it,  must  have  heen  oaunlit 
by  tho  engine  as  It  pnssed  lightly  over  Meiiem's  bo  "v,  torn  from 
hor  at  a  wrench,  and  carried  along  f(;r  an  indefnut-o  distance  in 
the  dirootion  of  r>ouira.  It  was  quite  possible,  inlcod,  that  tlie 
entire  omatnent  mi;,dit  still  be  clinging  to  some  projecting  screw 
of  the  engine  or  buffers  ;  and  the  first  question  foi-  l-Jhstace  to 
docide  was,  therefore,  what  particular  locomotive  had  been  at- 
tached that  day  to  the  early  morning  train  for  Setif.  If  he  could 
find  out  that  point,  he  might  mtercept  the  engine  at  the  station. 
and  examine  its  bottom  and  sides  carefully. 

Next  morning,  accordingly,  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  find  his 
way  on  his  own  legs  out  into  the  village,  he  m;i(I'j  inquiries  of 
the  ofliciala  as  to  the  locomotive  in  question,  'i'l^e  chef  de  c/ni'' 
was  all  French  politeness  ;  it  was  the  Avcnir  de  Aiivrie  that  drew 
the  train  on  the  day  Monsieur's  most  deplorable  acei  ent  ;  and  if 
MonHiour,  who  had  rendered  such  signal  service  to  the  colony  at 
the  risk  of  his  life  (for  a  telegram  from  the  Governoi -General  had 
already  conveyed  to  Eustace  the  public  thanks  for  saving  the 
beleaguered  garrison  of  St.  Cloud)  would  have  the  goodness  to 
call  at  tho  station  to-morrow  evening  at  4.20,  the  Avenir  de 
CAifertH  would  be  delayed  for  five  or  ten  miimtes  as  it  passed,  so 
that  Monsieur  might  make  a  thorough  search  for  the  missing 
jewellery.  ♦•  Mademoiselle  wore  dia-uiionda,  no  doubt,"  the  cA«/ 
de  (jan,  luggef-'ted  politely. 

Eufltaf«<  smiled.     The  notion  of  Meriera  possessing  Hurh  pew- 
gaws  was  too  supremely  ridiculous.     Yet  he  could  hardly  say  he. 
was  making  all  this  fuss  about  a  mere  Kabyle  box  in  rough  white 
inetal,  studaed  loosely  on  the  lid  with  coral  and  lapis  Uzuli. 

••  It  was  not  su  much  the  locket  itself,"  he  replied,  eviisively, 
•*  that  Mademoiselle  so  highly  valued,  as  the  nature  of  the  oon* 
ieutti  wiuoh  he  believed  to  be  of  singular  and  luu^^  v%lu«  " 


tHE    TENTS    OF    SHXU. 


The  clxef  d»  gare  nodded.  The  train  should  be  delayed  t!?en. 
The  colony  was  proud  to  manifest  its  gratitudo  to  Monsionr,  who 
had  shown  so  much  devotion  in  saving  the  lives  of  our  follow- 
citizcns. 

But  Meriem  wag  little  consoled  to  learn  that  she  must  wait 
another  thirty  hours  or  more  before  even  a  search  could  be  made 
for  her  missing  toinket — Yusuf  s  last  gift,  and  all  that  depended 
apon  it. 

At  4.20  next  day,  Eustace  presented  himself  duly  at  the  station, 
and  with  the  help  of  the  porters  overhauled  the  locomotive  and 
tender  thoroughly.  They  found  but  one  trace  there  to  reward 
their  pains — three  or  four  more  links  of  the  broken  chain,  wedged 
in  between  the  gearing  that  supports  the  buffers. 

That  discovery  impressed  more  than  ever  upon  Eustace's  mind 
the  hopelessness  and  vagueness  of  this  wild-goose  chase.  Evi- 
dently, the  locket  had  been  carried  away  by  the  locomotive,  and 
then  dropped.  They  might  have  to  look  for  it,  bit  by  bit,  along 
the  whole  line  from  Algiers  to  Constantino,  a  distance  which  it 
took  thirteen  hours  for  the  fastest  train  in  the  day  to  traverse. 

He  went  back  to  Meriem  very  ill-satisfied  with  the  result  of  his 
search.  But  Meriem,  when  she  heard  his  report,  clasped  her 
hands  fervently,  and  answered  with  all  the  energy  of  her  simple 
nature,  "  We  must  search  the  whole  line  as  soon  as  I'm  v/ell 
enough,  if  we  have  to  tramp  from  here  to  Constantine  to  do  it. 
Not  for  world/j  would  I  let  that  locket  go  into  the  hands  of  any- 
body who  might  try  to  use  it  against  Vernon  and  Iris." 

It  was  a  dismal  look-out,  but  Eustace  tried  to  face  it.  His 
strength  returned  much  faster  than  Meriem's.  In  a  day  or  two, 
indeed,  be  was  able  to  venture  out  for  a  longer  walk  along  the 
line,  which  he  followed  for  a  mile  or  so  in  the  direction  the  loco- 
motive had  taken  on  the  morning  of  the  accident.  He  thought 
it  probable  the  locket  would  have  been  dropped  before  the  train 
had  gone  many  minutes  on ;  and  in  effect,  about  the  third 
kilometre  from  Beni-Mansour,  he  came  to  his  delight  upon  the 
broken  lid,  with  its  well-known  decoration  of  rough  blue  stories 
and  red  bosses  of  jewellery.  Where  the  lid  was  found,  the  box 
itself  and  its  contents  could  not  be  very  far  distant.  Following 
up  tb«  line  a  few  hundred  yards  further,  he  soon  perceived  the 
remibmder  of  Meriem's  much-prized  necklet,  with  the  locket 
attached,  lying  between  the  ties  in  the  middle  of  the  rails.  He 
eanght  it  up  aoid  examined  the  contents  eagerly.  They  were  all 
oafa — and  Um  secret  was  out  He  iowaA.  four  or  fivo  small 
ifBjunMi   «f    Iknt   fontipi   ctote  ^frnfiem.   M4o4  m  fmCcUdiod  wttib 


XUK    TENTS   or    SUBM. 


fl88 


acmpulous  <'^rp  jn^t  tn  fit  tlifl  box,  and  apparently  ooverod  on 
both  sides  wiii;  u  auM)  uiaiiuscnpt  in  EurDpcan  letters. 

He  could  guess  now  why  Meriem  wished  to  read  English 
.  haudwriting. 

Curiosity  would  natnnilly  liave  led  hira  to  examine  the  manu- 
script, but  without  Mi'tiein  b  consent  he  could  not  dream  of  doing 
so.  lie  only  saw  va.i,niely  aiJi'ainst  his  own  will,  as  he  replaced 
the  little  squares  caretully  in  their  receptacle,  that  the  outside 
roll  bore  on  its  face  tlu'  <listinct  words,  *'  I,  Clarence  Knyvett, 
formerly  comet  " — and  there  the  visible  part  of  the  paper  broke 
off,  with  the  line  unfinished. 

Happily  in  that  dry  climate,  the  papers  had  lain  out  in  the 
open  air  so  many  days  and  nii^dits  unhurt,  with  the  box  covering' 
them.  Li  England,  they  would  have  boon  reduced  long  before 
then  to  a  spontuneous  amateur  form  oi  puj^ier  mache. 

It  was  with  j.;ri;at  joy  that  he  returned  to  the  Rest  House  with 
his  spoils  to  Meriem.  She  took  them  anxiously,  and,  turning 
them  over,  looked  at  each  paper  separately,  v  it  i  an  eager  eye. 
lest  any  should  be  niissin^t,'.  Then  she  glanced  up  at  Le  Mar- 
chant,  and  said  with  a  sigh,  "  So  now  you  know  my  secret, 
Eustace." 

♦•  I  do  not,"  Eustace  answered  ;  •'  or,  only  a  little  of  it.  I  saw 
the  papers  were  safe  ;  but,  without  your  leave,  I  would  never 
have  dreamt  of  looking  at  one  of  them,  Meriem.'  ' 

Meriem  gazed  hiick  at  him  with  her  large  soft  eyes. 

"  I  knew  you  wouldn't,  Eustace,"  she  said,  confidently. 

"  Then  why  do  you  say  I  know  your  secret?" 

**  Because,  seeing  tliese,  you  must  surely  guess  it." 

••  Not  altogether,"  l^ustaee  answered,  with  truth.  '•  I've  an 
idea,  of  course,  but  nothing  i'urther." 

Meriem  turned  to  him,  and  opened  them  at  full  length  before 
his  eyes. 

"  We  ar'>  one  now,  Eustace,"  she  said,  simply.  '•  I  can  trust 
you  with  iin.  tiling.  You  may  read  them  if  you  will.  But  you 
took  me  penniless,  and  penniless  you  imist  keep,  me." 

Eustace  aci^epted  the  papers  without  any  false  show  of  reluc- 
tance from  her  hands,  and  read  them  through.  His  eyes  were 
full  of  tears  once  or  twice  as  he  rea,d.  Wheai  he  had  finished,  he 
turned  to  Meriem,  and  said,  quietly,  "You  meant  never  to  shov 
them  to  any  one,  Menem?" 

•*  1  will  nevpr  show  them,"  Meriom  answered  firmly.  "  Hut 
because   1    lovu    )ou,  and    because   1  can  Uxiat  you,  1  show  ihetu 


284 


THB   TENTB   Or   SIIEU. 


to  yon,  and  to  you  only.     You  will  never  l^otray  my  lecret, 
Ruatace." 

Eustace  rose  and  kissed  her  tenderly  on  the  forehead. 
-  ••  Never,"  he  answered,  with  solemn  eiupliasia.  "  You're  a 
brave  girl,  Meriem,  and  I  honour  you  for  it.  I  am  work  for  you 
and  keep  you,  in  what  to  you  and  me  will  be  suflicient  comfort,  or 
even  luxury.  Let  Miss  Knyvett  hold  to  her  money,  if  she  will. 
[,  for  one,  will  never  enlighten  her." 

There  was  a  short  pause.  Then  Eustace  spoke  again.  *'  It's 
better  as  it  is,"  he  said.  "  I've  always  felt  that.  I  never  wished 
to  marry  a  rich  wife.  I  prefer  to  work,  so  that  the  woman  I  love 
may  owe  me  everything.  It's  manlier  so.  Yet  it  will  be  some- 
thing for  us  both  to  know  through  life,  Meriem,  that  money  was 
as  water  to  us,  when  we  had  it  to  take,  compared  with  our  love 
for  one  another." 

Meriem,  nestling  close  to  him  with  her  errand  proud  head, 
answered  in  a  very  low  voice.  "  One  tiling  alone,"  she  said, 
'•  in  these  last  few  days,  has  made  me  falter.  Do  you  remember, 
lliustace,  one  morning  in  the  tent  Mr.  Whituiarsli  was  loo  kin;,'  at 
that  lovely  collection  of  yours — the  butterlluis  and  beetles — and 
he  said — that  man  who  could  never  uiulerstaml  you — •  Jf  you 
'hose  to  sell  these  things  in  London,  Mr.  Le  Marchant,  I  expect 
you  could  make  a  great  deal  of  money  out  of  them.'  And  you 
looked  up  from  the  bird  you  were  stulling  and  answered  quietly, 
'I've  no  time  to  waste  on  making  money.'  Though  I  wasn't  in 
love"" with  you  then,  I  thought  that  was  grand.  I'm  only  a  woman 
—a  poor,  ignorant  Kabyle  woman — and  I  couldn't  quite  uiuier- 
stand  your  work,  of  course,  or  why  it  was  so  important  for  yon 
to  learn  all  about  the  beasts  and  birds,  and  the  plants  and 
flowers,  though  I  fancy  I  can  dimly  guess  just  a  little  how  it  is ; 
but  I  thought  what  you  answered  was  grand  for  all  that ;  I  said 
to  myself,  '  If  it  were  not  for  Vernon,  how  a  woman  mi;4ht  love  and 
admire  Eustace  I  '  And  now  that  it's  come  home  to  me,  all  in  a 
flash,  how  much  greater  and  better  a  man  you  are  than  Vernon, 
I've  said  to  myself  again,  more  than  once  or  twice,  '  Eustace  has 
no  time  to  waste  on  making  money  I  I  love  him  for  that ;  I 
admire  him  for  that ;  it's  so  great  and  noble.  But  still,  if  he 
had  money  all  ready  made,  if  I  had  moiiey  of  my  own  to  give 
him,  how  much  better  work  he  might  do  for  the  world  in  that 
high  way  I  can  hardly  understand,  in  finding  out  how  everything 
came  to  be  so  I  And  sometimes,  these  last  few  days,  I've  almost 
regretted.     I  might  have  tukeu  it  lor  juur  i^ake,  Eui>taue,  if  i 


^mHtmrn^ 


taiL   TENTS   OV   StIEM. 


2b6 


hadn't  saui  that  day  on  the  hillside  to  Iria,  •  The  money's  yours. 
You  iuu.st  always  keep  it.'  " 

Eustace  looked  down  at  her  witli  ))r*  le  and  joy.  "  Meriera," 
he  said,  pushiiif?  back  the  hair  from  her  hif^di,  white  forehead, 
"if  only  you  knew  how  much  plensure  it  gives  me  to  hear  you 
speak  like  that,  you'd  never  want  me  to  be  rich  in  anytliint^  else 
but  in  your  own  dear  love,  my  treasure,  my  darlinjjj.  That  you, 
who  have  lived  this  simple,  villaj^e  life,  without  schools  or  books, 
should  so  enter  into  one's  thouglits  and  comprehend  one's  aims 
as  few  educated  Englishwomen  could  ever  do  is  to  me  wonderful 
— a  tnuiiii)li  of  nature.  It  makes  me  feel,  more  than  ever,  what 
p  I'^wfl  1  have  found,  and  how  unworthy  I  am  of  you.  With  you 
to  help  lue  and  to  spur  me  on,  I  shall  need  no  wealth.  I  shall 
need  no  money.  AVe  two  will  do  great  work  togetlMU-  yet,  [feuni- 
less  Hs  we  are.  Keep  your  word  to  Iris,  my  child.  n-h!it''V('i 
happens.  Let  Iris  have  her  fortune  still,  as  jou  ^iuunatia.  ild) 
MAineiu,  you  le  wunh  a  thousand  iriaitis." 


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Corporation 


23  >NEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  K.'    H580 

(716)  872-4503 


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I'iUk     iJhikA*    UiP     acUU&i 


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TLTL 


OTVCT!    MOniS    UNTO    THR    BRBAOB. 

Trtr  and  [her  mother,  meanwhile,  with  Uncle  Tnm,  s^einUtt 
iilake,  and  the  St.  Cloud  fugitivei,  were  slowly  rccoverincr  fr*^'" 
their  fatigue  and  their  hurts  at  Ti«-Ouzou — which  is,  ocii., 
interpreted,  the  gorge  of  the  broom-plant — a  picturesque  litt! 
Frenchified  village,  perched  on  the  summit  of  a  conioal  hill,  aji< 
sepa'^ated  from  the  base  of  the  Kabylie  Mountains  bj  a  broac 
but  sliallow  arid  brawling  river.  St.  Cloud  itself  having  practi 
cally,  for  the  moment,  ceased  to  exist — a  mere  shell  and  a  singl 
shattered  keep  now  alone  represented  the  ci-devant  Fort,  whil. 
lothing  more  than  blackened  ruins  remained  ol  what  was  onci 
the  flourishing  village — the  rescued  survivors  had  perforce  rotire< 
it  once  upon  the  nearest  secure  European  station,  where  it  wa. 
aecessary  for  theij  to  rest  for  a  few  days  en  route,  before  proceed 
ing  to  Algiers,  to  regain  their  wonted  strength  and  composure. 

Vernon  Blake's  wound,  too,  neglected  by  dire  necessity  on  the 
aight  of  the  outbreak,  had  now  to  be  more  carefully  dressed  and 
bandaged  ;  and  the  task  of  nursing  him  in  the  little  inn  at  Tizi- 
Ouzou,  which  proclaimed  itself  aloud  as  Hotel  de  I'Univers, 
naturally  devolved,  in  the  fitness  of  things,  upon  Mrs.  Knyvett, 
and, more  especially  upon  Iris.  They  were  the  only  two  womei 
intho  place  with  whom  the  English  painter  had  any  language  in 
common  ;  and  it  must  be  admitted  parenthetically  that  Iris,  foi 
her  part,  in  spite  of  her  profound  etliical  studies,  was  by  no 
means  unwilling  to  accept  this  very  good  excuse  for  continuing 
to  see  somewhat  more  than  was  right  of  the  man  whom  bIk 
still  persisted  in  regarding  as  ds  Jure  her  cousin  Merifim'g  lover. 
The  female  conscience,  even  though  it  belong  to  the  aggravated 
Knyvett  variety,  is  readily  salved  in  such  cases.  It  hoodwinks 
itself,  on  easy  terms,  with  the  "  tyrant's  plea  "  of  necessity.  For 
how  could  Ins  let  a  brave  defender  (and  handsome,  too,  at  that) 
Uick  £t  attendance  from  his  own  fellow-countrywoman  in  hii 


-  -^  TTK-t—^ 


CHX    TKMT8   OF    gUSM. 


•17 


honr  of  need  on  no  better  ground  than  mcrelj  beeanso  Meriem 
happened  to  have  a  vested  interest  in  him  f 

Nay,  it  must  even  be  admitted,  with  a  blush,  by  the  candid 
chronicler  that  both  Iria  and  Vernon  intensely  enjoyed  these 
necessary  interviews  thus  thrust  upon  them  against  the  will  of 
one  party  at  least  by  the  inevitable  decrees  of  manifest  destiny. 
It's  wrong  to  flirt,  of  course,  as  we  all  know,  with  somebody 
else's  afTianced  lover  ;  but  if  somebody  else's  affianced  lover  is 
seriously  wounded  in  the  left  shoulder,  in  somebody  else's 
unavoidable  absence,  r.nd  with  nobody  else  to  tend  and  care  for 
him — why,  common  charity  compels  a  girl  of  feeling  to  under- 
take, in  somebody  else's  own  interest,  the  vicarious  task  of 
nursing  him  ;  and  even  if  that  task  should  happen  to  prove 
in  itself  agreeable,  can  there  be  anything  wrong  in  thus  giving 
way  (on  compulsion,  observe  I)  to  your  natural  instincts  as  a 
ministering  angel  ?  Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please,  as  Ver- 
non Blake  had  found  Iris  Knyvett  in  her  hours  of  ease  at  8t. 
Cloud  in  the  mountains,  he  was  forced  to  acknowledge  t'^it  when 
pain  and  anguish  (neither  of  them,  it  must  be  admiiL  i,  very 
profound  in  character)  wrung  his  brow  at  Tizi-Ouzou,  she  was 
the  neatest  and  deftest  and  most  thoughtful  of  nurses.  The 
stern  moralist  himself  could  hardly  object,  indeed,  to  one's  put- 
ting fresh  roses  and  violets  every  morning  with  tender  care  by 
an  invalid's  bedside  ;  and  all  the  rules  of  propriety  are  silent  in 
the  lump  as  to  the  \>^rongfulnes3  of  bringing  good  beef-tea  to  a 
wounded  man  (engaged  or  otherwise)  on  a  pretty  Moorish  tray 
rendered  sweet  with  stephanotis,  plumbago,  and  lilac-blossom. 
To  such  double-dyed  crimes.  Iris  pleaded  guilty  each  evening 
with  shame  to  her  own  conscience  in  the  privacy  of  her  bed- 
chamber— and  absolved  herself  forthwith  on  further  esnmination 
upon  the  varied  pleas  of  gratitude,  friendship,  and  medical 
direction. 

Communications  with  thoir  absent  friends  had  already  been 
restored.  A  telegram  from  Eustace  had  announced,  shortly 
after  their  arrival  at  Tizi-Ouzou,  his  own  safety  and  Meriem'i 
while  gliding  with  a  light  liand  over  the  thrilling  story  of  then: 
respective  accidents.  Iris  knew,  therefore,  it  was  to  Meriem'i 
devotion  in  part  that  they  owed  their  safety — the  papers,  indeed, 
had  told  her  so  much— and  she  was  pursued  day  and  night  by 
an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  this  new  claim  on  Meriem'i  part 
put  her  all  the  more  upon  her  honour  in  ail  her  difficult  anl 
very  uncertain  relations  with  her  cousin's  lover.  Yet  in  spite  61 
•var}  thiiig — for  tli«  human  heart  will  have  its  Mj  witkin  itself^ 


iH 


tmjt   TXNTS  or   SHKM. 


reptess  It  as  we  may  in  all  external  maifestationa — the  Third 
Classic  couldn't  deny  to  her  own  soul  that  she  was  aupremely 
happy  With  a  momentary  happiness  in  taking  care  of  her  wounded 
painter.  It  was  a  happiness,  alas  that  must  soon  ceuse  ;  the 
horrid  shoulder  would  gel  well  hi  time ;  but  while  it  lasted,  at 
any  rate,  it  was  well  worth  enjoying.  Munochronos.  kidune,  her 
Greek  Epicurean  guide  had  toid  liur ;  the  one  fleeting  moment 
of  pure  delight  in  a  transient  world  is  all  we  can  count  upon. 
Might  she  not  fairly  drink  it  in  wliile  it  still  endured  ?  for  Mer- 
iem  would  have  hira  soon,  too  soon,  for  ever. 

On  that  fixed  point  she  had  made  her  mind  up  fairly  and 
Squarely  once  for  all.  \)bJi ether  he  would  or  whether  he  would 
not,  Vernon  Blake  must  murry  Meriem. 

Yet  when  once  or  twice,  discreetly  smiling,  she  returned  to 
the  charge  of  her  Invalid  in  this  direction  with  a  dexterous  aide- 
thrtist,  Vernon  Blake  had  only  answered  her  with  malicioas 
audacity,  '*  Without  descending  into  such  minute  particulars  as 
that,  you  know,  I  propose  at  any  rate,  mth  your  kind  permission, 
to  marry  somewhere  into  the  Knyvett  family."  And  thereat, 
Iris,  discomforted,  could  only  laugh  and  blush — feeling  all  the 
time  that  both  blush  and  laugh  were  distilict  betrayals  of  her 
trust  to  ileriem. 

**  If  you  go  on  talking  so,"  the  Third  Classic  exclaimed  to  him 
once,  continuing  nevertheless  to  arrange  tlie  roses  in  the  vase  by 
his  side  with  trembling  fingers  as  she  spoke,  "I  shall  go  right 
away  this  very  minute  and  not  come  back  any  more  at  all,  but 
just  leave  my  mother  to  do  all  the  nursing.  It's  very  unkind  of 
you  to  take  such  an  advantage  of  your  helpless  condition.  I've 
told  you  once  for  all  quite  plainly  what  1  think,  that  day  at  ISt. 
Clotid,  and  I  can't  reopen  the  subject  again  with  you  now." 
But  none  the  less  her  quivernig  lips  belied  her  angry  words,  and 
her  downcast  eyes  had  a  strant^'e  mist  gathering  almost  imper- 
ceptibly over  their  dimmed  pui)iJs. 

"  YeS,  I  know:  I  remember,"  Vernon  Blake  replied,  with  that 
false  boldness  which  love  had  taught  his  sensitive  nature  :  •'  you 
said  that  day  at  St.  Cloud  you  did  love  me  ;  and  when  the 
woman  he  loves  once  tells  a  man  that,  do  you  think  he's  likely, 
Miss  Knyvett,  ever  to  forget  it  ?  *' 

Iris  winced.  "  But  I  also  said,"  ghe  murmured,  in  a  very 
low  voice,  "  I  could  never  marry  you  :  I  could  never  rest  till 
you'd  married  Meriem." 

"  And  /  said  for  my  part,"  Vernon  Blake  retorted,  pretending 
to  move  his  wounded  arm  painfully  to  attract  her  sympathy,  *'  / 


"'/T.'t^*-*-' 


%'. 


wmm  TBMTi  or  bhbm. 


W 


said  « I'll  marry  yon  or  nobody,  Tria.'  And  I  don't  ■••  wht  what 
I  suAiax  that  particular  occasion  shouldn't  be  stuck  to  juet  B.i 
uuob  M  what  you  said,  Iris.  Oh,  yes,  I'll  call  you  Iriit  if  1 
:hooBe;  I  shall ;  and  if  you  don't  like  it,  you  may  go  away  as 
vou  threaten  and  send  yuur  mother."  But  he  clung  for  all  that 
10  the  hand  that  he'd  seized  among  the  roaes  by  his  side,  and 
pressed  it  tight.  "  You  told  me  you  loved  mo,  you  know,"  ht 
murmured  once  more,  "  and  when  a  woman  once  tells  a  mar 
such  a  thing  as  that,  ho  hau  a  right  if  he  chooses  to  call  hci 
Iris." 

The  blushing  Girton  girl  struggled  hard  to  set  herself  free, 
but  all  in  vain.  Man  remains  the  stronger  animal  of  the  two  ir 
spite  even  of  the  higher  education.  "  Oh,  how  can  I  ever  faci 
Meriem  again?"  r^he  cried  at  last,  bursting  into  suddez)  tears. 
"  It's  cruel  of  you,  Mr,  Blaka,  to  bring  up  such  a  casual  phrase 
against  me.  What  I  said  that  day,  I  slipped  out  by  accident ; 
by  the  purest  accident :  I  said  it  out  of  the  fulness  of  my  heart 
at  the  moment,  trusting  to  your  chivalry  not  to  use  it  against 
rae ;  and  now  you're  using  it  against  me  and  against  Merierp 
Oh,  how  can  I  ever  dare  to  face  her  again  and  tell  her  all  this  ^ 
She'U  think  I've  betrayed  her ;  she'll  think  I've  been  false  t( 
her.  And  I — who'd  break  my  own  jaeart  to  serve  her  I — I  sai< 
to  her  that  morning  on  the  rocks  at  Beni-Merzoug,  '  He  mu- 
marry  you  Meriem  I  He  shall  marry  yoi?  I  I'll  make  hii 
marry  you  I'     And  if  I  tell  her  this,,  she'll  say  I've  betrayed  her. 

VemoT)  Blake  released  her  hand  with  a  jerk,  as  if  in  ange. 
"  Apd  did  it  never  occur  to  you,"  he  asked,  with  mock  sternness 
*'  that  in  making  that  private  disposition  of  somebcdy  elso'i  beai 
and  hand  on  your  own  account,  you  wure  arranging  a  bargai 
without  asking  the  consent  of  one  of  the  most  interested  parti 
in  the  arrangement  ?" 

"  But,  you'd  made  her  love  you  I"  Iris  cried,  pleading  fniiit.. 
It's  hard  to  have  to  plead  your  rival's  cause  against  your  o\v. 
inclination.     •'  You'd  no  right,  you  know,  to  break  poor  Meriem' 
heart.     You,  who  were  so  much  above  her,  and  better  than  he. 
in  every  way  ;  you,  who  could  paint  such  beautiful  pictures,  anr 
say  such  lovely  poetical  things,  and   fill  her  poor  head  witl 
thoughts  that  could  never  otherwise  have  got  there,  how  couk. 
you  fail  to  win  her  heart  wiien  you  tried — or  even  if  you  did  no! 
try  at  all,  for  that  matter  ?" 

"  That's  juat  my  excuse,"  the  painter  answered,  contritely. 

Iris  blushed  once  more.  She  recognized  too  late  that  she  hac! 
inadvertently  played  the  enemy's  best  card,  so  she  relapsed  into 
the  lAmf  refuge  of  silence. 


^.00 


THE    TENTS   OV 


Vernon  Blake  let  her  muse  on  for  a  moment  without  following 
ip  his  advantage.  It  was  better  so.  He  knew  it  by  instinct. 
V  woman  can  feel  her  own  heart  beat  hard  against  her  breast  in 
AiesQ  awkward  pauses.  Her  emotion  has  time  to  force  itself  on 
iier  consciousness.  Then  he  began  again  in  a  very  low  voice. 
'  At  St.  Cloud  the  other  night,"  he  said^  softly,  ••  when  you 
women  were  all  huddled  in  a  group  on  the  roof,  and  the  Kabyles 
were  firing  and  stabbing  and  thrusting  at  us  like  wild  beasts, 
ind  the  gate  was  one  hving  blaze  of  light,  and  all  hope  was  over, 
iind  the  men  were  giving  up,  I  said  to  myself,  '  If  it  comes  to  the 
worst,  I  shall  rush  upstairs  and  take  her  in  my  arms,  rpv 
wounded  arms — that  queen  among  women-  and  hold  her  tight 
there  in  one  last  embrace,  and  press  her  just  once  to  my  bosom 
like  a  lover,  and  wait  for  those  brutes  to  kill  us  two  together — 

and  then no  Kabyle  girl  on  earth  shall  ever  divide  us. 

She  shall  be  mine,  one  moment,  if  we  die  for  it  together  !'  And 
just  as  I  thought  my  dream  was  coming  true — you  may  pity  me, 
Iris,  if  you  can't  love  me— the  Zouaves  came  up,  those  horrid 
Zouaves,  and  spoilt  it  all — and  here  you  are  telling  me  to  go  and 

narry  Meriem You  may  tell  me  till  you're  hoarse,  but, 

Iris,  I  swear  to  you,  if  I  wait  a  hundred  years,  I  shall  make  you 
marry  me,  now  I  know  you  love  me.  I  shall  never,  never  marry 
Lhe  Kabyle  girl  I" 

Iris  bent  down  her  head  in  her  hands  and  sobbed.     "  You  are 
^ruel,  Mr.  Blake,"  she  cried.     ••  You  are  too,  too  cruel." 

How  inartistic  in  its  brusque  transitions  is  real  life  I  Just  at 
that  moment,  that  critical  moment,  as  luck  would  have  it,  when 
the  painter  would  fain  have  bent  over  her  and  kissed  her,  who 
should  appear  most  inopportunely  at  the  door  but  Francois,  the 
boots,  who,  thrusting  in  his  head  with  the  comic  confidential  nod 
of  the  French  manservant,  observed  laconically,  like  one  that 
takes  in  the  situation  at  a  glance,  *'  Ne  vous  drnuun's  pas.  Messieurs 
t  dames — voila  le  J'acteur  qui  vient  d'arriver — une  lettre  /Kinr  Maile- 
iiioiselle"  and  vanished  with  a  discreet  smile  itistaiitaneously. 
Iris  took  the  envelope  from  his  hands  and  int'uluuiically  opened 
it.  It  was  a  note  in  a  large  round  child. aii  liand,  the  very  first 
letter,  in  fact,  Meriem  had  ever  tried  to  write  to  anybody  in 
Ulnglish  manuscript. 


"My  dear  Iris,"  it  said,  in  its  big  strapjrling  characters,  "I 
lave  something  very  iiri[)ortat)t  to  tell  you  \*iieu  we  meet — some- 
hing  that  I  think  will  make  you  ever  so  happy.  Please  don't 
ay  anything  to  Vernun  thai  will  hurt  him  till  you  see  me.     i 


THE   TXNTl  or    SHEM. 


291 


will  go  to  Algiers  with  Eustace  whenever  you're  ready  to  go  your- 
self. Eustace  will  arrange  with  Vernon  to  meet  U8  at  the  place 
the  train  stops  at,  when  he  knows  what  day  you  mean  to  start. 
It's  all  so  strange  to  me,  I  can't  arrange  about  it.  Now  I  must 
leave  off.  This  ig  all.  Excuse  the  blots,  as  this  is  the  first 
English  letter  I've  ever  written.  I  know  you'll  be  glad  when 
you  hear  what  I  have  to  tell  you. 

"  Ever  your  very  loving  cousin, 

<«  MEBiBif  Enyvstt." 

The  signature  alone  was  full  of  novelty.  Iris  folded  the  letter 
up,  and  slipped  it  into  her  bosom  with  a  throbbing  heart.  What 
thing  it  might  forbode  she  hardly  as  yet  even  dared  to  conjecture, 
but  she  somehow  vaguely  realised  to  herself  the  fact  that  it  was 
a  way  out  for  herself  and  Vernon.  She  looked  at  her  painter 
as  he  lay  pale  upon  his  bed,  with  one  wistful  look;  and  then, 
mindful  of  Meriem's  charge,  slipped  from  the  room  without  on^ 
otJier  word  to  him.  Her  heart  was  far  too  full,  indeed,  for  words ; 
they  might  mislead  her.  And  suppose  she  were  mistaken,  what 
going  back  would  then  be  possible  ? 

Till  she  saw  Meriem  now,  she  could  never  dare  to  face  Vernon 
again.  It  was  with  no  little  relief,  therefore,  that  she  learned  to 
her  joy  that  evening  from  the  Tizi-Ouzou  doctor  her  patient  mi^^ht 
venture  u^uu  leaving  to-morrow. 


-« 


1 


1  "J 


iFflB— 


29fl 


TBX   TXMTB  OF  8XUJtf. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 


TO  ALGIERS. 

It  was  with  a  distinct  shrinking  that  Meriem  Enjrett  (as  she 
had  for  the  first  time  signed  her  name  in  her  letter  to  Iris)  allowed 
herself  to  he  hurried  into  a  first-class  compartment  on  the  East 
Algerian  Railway  at  Beni-Mansour  station.  Her  only  previous 
acquaintance  with  the  locomotive,  indeed,  had  heen  far  from  a 
reassuring  one  ;  and  it  required  no  small  exercise  of  courage  on 
the  part  of  an  untutored  mountain  girl  to  trust  herself  now  to  be 
whirled  along  through  the  country  at  the  tail  of  that  snorting, 
roaring,  careering  fire  breather,  whose  fiierce  assault  she  had  so 
lately  experienced  in  propria  persona  as  it  swooped  down  the  slop* 
towards  the  bridge  in  the  gully.  Eustace,  however,  assured  hei 
there  was  no  danger  in  the  railway ;  and  if  Eustace  said  so,  so  it 
must  be  ;  for  to  Eustace  she  now  trusted  herself  wholly  with  that 
sweet  self- surrender  which  a  true  woman  can  always  display  to- 
wards her  chosen  counterpart.  In  fact,  the  timid  Kabyle-bred 
girl  seated  herself  in  the  train  with  as  much  outer  composure  as 
if  she  had  been  accustomed  all  her  life  to  travelling  on  the  line  ; 
for  Meriem  shared  with  all  other  women  of  free  democratic  moun- 
tain communities  that  perfect  natural  breeding  which  prevents  a 
person  from  ever  feeling  gauche  or  restrained  or  awkward,  in 
whatever  society,  or  under  whatever  circumstances.  Habituated 
only  to  free  intercourse  with  equals,  it  never  even  struck  her 
that  the  greatest  lady  could  look  down  upon  her  wherever  she 
might  be,  or  that  she  had  need  for  any  but  her  own  natural 
manner  to  put  her  at  her  ease  in  what  company  she  might  come 
across. 

Eustace  had  before  this  recovered  his  European  clothes  by 
special  messenger  from  the  tent  at  Beni-Merzoug,  and  sat  by 
her  side,  an  Englishman  once  more,  in  his  wonted  garb,  smiling 
and  contented.  The  train  moved  off  at  last  from  the  platform 
to  Meriem's  inward  discomfiture,  with  a  loud  shriek  of  the  dis- 
cordant whistle,  and  soon  the  inexperienced  mountain  maiden 


Wf. 


"4T.5»W'«|?|fWI!#i 


TTWT" 


THE    TKNTg   OF    SBEM. 


898 


lound  herself  rushing  Hf  wliat  Beemecl  to  her  %  wildly  impossible 
pace  (ihougli  Bu8tK(('  lUclared  it  was  but  the  usual  4I0W  Algerian 
travelling)  down  tiie  lung  inclines  that  lead  from  the  lijurjura 
CO  the  plains  on  whose  edge  stands  the  town  of  Algiers,  in  gleam- 
ing glory.  Meriem  was  very,  very  happy.  II  never  occurred  to 
her  to  think,  in  her  perfect  innocence,  how  odd  a  si^ht  it  seemed 
to  her  fellow  travellers  to  see  an  English  gentleman  thus 
familiarly  conversing  with  a  simple  Kabyle  girl  in  hmk  end  bur- 
nouse. To  her,  it  was  merely  herself  and  Kustace.  The 
conventionalities  had  not  yet  begun  to  exist  in  her.  80  she 
rolled  along  the  smooth  line  in  strange  content,  ^lad  in  her  heart 
w  think  she  was  going  away  with  Eustace,  and  leaving  those 
terrible  scenes  of  war  for  ever  behind  her. 

On  the  platform  at  Menerville,  the  party  from  Tizi-Oiuou  was 
waiting  to  go  on  with  them.  As  they  steamed  into  the  station, 
ivieriem  rushed  to  the  window  to  catch  a  first  glimpse  of  her 
recovered  Iris.  She  knew  not  why — perhaps  it  was  because 
DJood  is  thicker  than  water,  perhaps  because  Irin  was  the  only 
Sfirl  she  had  ever  met  who  at  all  approached  her  own  natural  and 
vigorous  mental  stature,  the  only  one  whocould  syniputhise  with 
the  profounder  European  half  of  her  strong  nature — but  at  any 
rate,  for  whatever  reason,  she  loved  Iris  already  as  she  bad 
never  before  loved  any  other  woman.  On  the  platform,  she 
caught  sight  of  Iris's  pretty  face,  still  a  trifle  pale  from  the 
terrors  of  the  night  attack,  but  beaming  with  wreathed  smiles  at 
Meriem's  evident  childish  anxiety  to  greet  her.  Meriem  leapt 
out,  in  ipite  of  her  fears,  almost  before  the  train  had  quite  come 
to  ft  standstill  (regardless  of  the  regulations  to  the  contrary  in 
the  Company's  by-laws),  and  flung  her  arms  wildly,  in  an  excess 
of  fervour,  round  her  cousin's  neck.  Then  she  turned  with  a 
smile  to  Vernon  Blake,  and  holding  out  her  \vliite  hand  with 
perfect  frankness,  leant  over  in  her  innocent  simijliuity  to  kiss 
nim. 

As  their  faces  met.  Iris's  heart  beat  hard  in  suspense.  But 
Meriem,  drawing  her  English  kinswoman  aside,  while  Uncle 
Tom  was  hurrying  Mrs.  Knyvett  into  her  place  in  the  train,  half- 
whispered  in  her  ear  with  a  smile  of  dehght,  "We  shall  soon  be 
cousins,  you  know,  Vernon  and  I  ;  for  as  soon  as  you  hear  what 
I  have  to  tell  you,  I'm  sure.  Iris,  you  won't  any  longer  refuse  to 
marry  him." 

Iris  pressed  her  hand  hard  in  mute  reply,' and  kissed  the  beau- 
tiful Kabyle  girl  on  each  cheek  once  more.  There  was  no  time 
just  then  to  ask  anything  further.  The  inexorable  tinin  that 
waits  for  no  man  was  whisthng  in  its  eager  anxiety  to  be  off. 


S94 


THJB    TXNTl   OF    BIT  EM. 


*' En  voituret  mMflnin/'^  f"  sn,j\g  out  the  .shriIl>yoiced  ehaf-it- 
gar*:  and,  with  a  iiuintid  returii,  tbey  wuru  soon  on   their  road 
again  for  Algiers — and  Harold. 

How  they  chatted  and  laughed,  in  spite  of  all  their  pas^  terrors, 
on  that  merry  journey  ;  Meriem  full  of  the  doubla  delight  of  hor 
own  new-found  love,  and  of  making  Iris  happy ;  Iris,  notwith- 
standing her  wonderment  and  surprise,  yet  vaguely  conscious  in 
her  silent  joy  that  for  some  mysterious  reason  Meriem  wah 
cheerfully  and  willingly  yielding  Vernon  Blake  up  to  her.  How 
they  exchanged  the  terrible  stories  of  th^r  respective  perils  m 
the  minutest  detail  1  How  Iris  described  the  horrors  of  the  nigiit 
attack  till  Meriem  was  heartily  ashamed  to  herself  of  thofic 
creatures  who  had  once  been  her  fellow-countrymen.  How 
Meriem,  in  turn,  dwelt  upon  the  wild  terrors  of  that  appalling 
machine  which  civilisation  had  sent,  with  its  fiery  steed,  to  startle 
and  alarm  her  native  mountains.  They  tingled  and  thrilled  mhh 
their  mutual  confessions.  But  at  last,  when  Iris  had  finished 
her  narrative  of  that  ghastly  assault,  and  retailed  with  picturepqui' 
horror  the  savage  onslaught  of  those  fanatic  insurgents,  Menem 
looked  up  at  tier  and  asked,  with  a  sigh,  •'  Are  there  ever  Jehtttls 
in  your  religion.  Iris  ?  " 

"  No,"  Iris ii-nswered,  fervently ;  "  thank  heaven,  no,  Meriom. 
Our  religion's  spread  by  persuasion  alone.  It  horrifies  us  to  see 
such  deeds  as  those  done." 

•'  It  horrifies  me,  too,  to  hear  of  them,*' Meriem  replied,  simply. 
"But  our  people  think  it  right.  They  must  be  mistaken  ..." 
Then,  with  a  sudden  burst,  "  Oh,  Iris,  Iris,  I'm  ashamed  to  think 
I  ever  belonged  to  them  I  I  ahnost  wish  ....  it  may  be  very 
wrong  ....  but  I  somehow  almost  wish  I  was  like  you — a 
Christian  I " 

Iris  could  hardly  forbear  a  smile  at  the  perfect  naivete  of  this 
quaint  confession  ;  but  Mrs.  Knyvett,  sitting  bolt  upright  in  the 
corner,  started  back  in  her  seat  in  the  utmost  alarm,  and  gazed 
at  Meriem  with  the  sort  of  horror  and  surprise  with  which  one 
regards  a  scorpion  or  other  venomous  reptile.  '*  Gracious 
heavens,  Iris,"  she  cried,  astonished,  "  you  don't  mean  to  say  this 
poor  misguided  girl — your  uncle  Clarence's  daughter — has  really 
and  truly  been  brought  up  a  Mussalwoman — or  whatever  else  one 
ought  to  call  it  ?  " 

•'  Why,  what  else  on  earth  could  she  possibly  be  brought  up, 
mother  dear  ?  "  Iris  answered,  with  a  gentle  warning.look.  Thii 
was  surely  not  the  best  way  conceivable  to  still  poor  Meriem'f 
still  surviving  prejudices. 


THB  TKim  Of   IHSM. 


I — a 

1  this 
the 
Lzed 
one 

^ious 

this 

mlly 

one 


UPf 

■?hif 


**I  never  mat  any  infidels  at  all  before  I  met  Eustace  an 
Vernon,  you  lee,  Iris,"  Meriem  went  on,  red uv* Lively.  "  Till  ther 
of  coarse,  I'd  only  heard  harm  and  evil  speaking  about  infldeli^ 
Some  people  said  Yusuf  was  an  infidel  at  heart  himself  till  th« 
day  of  his  death,  and  that  that  was  why  he  went  down  somatime^ 
to  St.  Cloud  to  see  the  Pere  Baba ;  but  I  used  to  be  very  angr^ 
with  thom  when  they  t  I'l  uw  that,  u  Uiirally,  because  I  though* 
in  those  days  that  all  Christians  must  be  very,  very,  very  wicked. 
And  now,  since  I've  seen  how  Christians  behave  and  how  orii 
people  behave,  I'm  befjinnin?  to  think — I'm  not  quite  sure  whethei 
it's  sinful  or  not — but  I'm  oe^iuiung  to  think  ....  I  wish  i 
was  a  Christian  like  you,  Iris." 

Iris's  eyes  dropped  timidly  to  the  ground.  ••  I'm  a^id  it'f^ 
not  often,"  she  answered,  humbly,  "  we  Christians  commenil 
ourselves  among  people  who  do  not  belong  to  our  religion  in  thai 
way,  Meriem.  I  wish  we  did  so  a  great  deal  better.  But  I  iuj)- 
pose  you  won't  live  amonp;  Kabyles  any  more,  now  your  ancle's 
gone.  You'll  come  and  live  with  iis  over  in  England,  of  course  ; 
and  then  you'll  soon  learn  to  think  and  feel  as  we  do." 

••  I'd  never  live  among  people  like  those  again,"  Meriem  cried, 
energetically — ••  no,  not  if  I  was  to  be  killed  for  it.  I'd  never 
Hve  among  people  who  beheve  in  Jehads,  and  try  to  shoot  others 
(men,  women,  and  children)  for  no  excuse  or  cause.  \Vhy,  it's 
horrible  to  think  of  it.  It's  worse  than  the  French  who  fought 
against  our  people,  though  Yusuf  always  said  they  were  wickeder 
than  anybody.  I'm  glad  you're  all  Englisli,  and  not  French.  !• 
suppose  that's  because  I'm  Yuauf's  daughter.  And  as  to  the  in- 
fidels, why,  I  suppose,  of  course,  I  shall  be  a  Christian  myself, 
too,  when  " — she  checked  herself  suddenly,  with,  a  rich,  red 
blush.  She  had  nearly  blurted  out  in  her  haste  and  vehemence, 
•'  when  I'm  married  to  Eustace."  But,  frank  as  she  was,  she 
couldn't  quite  tell  her  whole  heart's  secret  as  opuuly  as  that 
before  the  face  of  Vernon  and  Uncle  Tom  and  Mrs.  Knyvett. 

•♦  When  you  get  to  England,"  Iris  suggested,  quietly  finishing 
oflF  the  broken  sentence  for  her  in  a  non-coramitting  fashion. 
For  Iris,  too,  had  observed  how  lier  eyes  fell  upon  Eustace,  half 
unconsciously,  as  she  spoke,  and  l)cgan  now  to  spell  out  for  her- 
self the  solution  of  this  singular  mystery. 

"When  I  get  to  England,"  Mtriem  answered,  catching  gladly 
at  the  proffered  means  of  escape.  "  I  don't  know  how  it  is, 
Iris,  but  I  somehow  feel  sure  I  dhall  hke  En.L,dand.  I've  felt 
more  at  home,  more  sympatliic,  1  tl.uik  you  call  it,  with  all  you 
EngUflli  ikaa  X  «ver  fult  with  ttii/nuu;   ti  .lii  at  Buui-Merzoog*     I 


m 


tuK  iktiti  w  itbtM. 


iiaed  to  think  at  first,  when  Vernon  and  Eustace  were  newly 
cotiie,  it  was  only  because  you  were  Yusufa  people,  anc!  I  was 
(ir-partMl  t  >  like  you  for  Yusufa  sake,  as  Yusul's  teilow-country- 
iii«n.  r.iiL  tl»e  more  I've  seen  and  known  ol"  you  all,  Ihe  more 
^i've  hMKid  out  that  that  was  a  mistake.  I'm  nearer  to  all  of 
}ou  tlmii  1  ever  could  be  to  anybody  else ;  I  like  and  sympathise 
with  )()ii,  not  only  because  you're  Ynsuf's  people,  but  Because 
you'i-e  my  people — my  own  people — n-t  well — my  neighbours,  my 
kinsmen,  my  like  in  nature.  One  day  \'ernpn  repeated  me  a  oit 
of  Knglish  song — about  a  bird,  a  skylark,  you  know — and  thai 
day  1  remember  it  came  home  to  me  suddenly  thai  1  feli  ail 
that  quite  diiTerently  from  the  way  I  could  ever  feel  anything  In 
the  Kabylii  verses.  Ours  are  all  verses  about  siicu  common 
things — the  olive-harvest,  and  the  corn,  and  fightiiig,  and  wife- 
buyihg.  But  this  was  a  song  about  how  a  bird  went  up  linging 
and  l-GJoicihg  in  the  air — such  a  beautiful  song — and  I  reineiii- 
ber  ^  bit  of  it,  a  bit  that  said — 

t7e  look  before  and  after. 

And  pine  for  what  is  Ddt  { 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  iomo  pain  i»  fraught,  . 

Oar  sweetest  songs  are  thoae  that  tell  of  saddest  thongHf. 

I  ibought  that  was  lovely — as  much  as  I  understood  of  it-;-and  1 
thoUgJit,  too,  no  iLabyle  that  ever  lived  could  possibly  have  mad^ 
a  song  like  that ;  so  t  thou(}:ht  at  tlie  same  time,  I  hiust  be  a 
good  deal  English  after  all  myself,  or  it  wouldn't  seerti  so  mucli 
more  beautiful  than  any  of  our  silly  little  Kabyle  verses." 

Not  even  Uncle  Tom.  could  refram  from  joining  in  the  hearty 
laugh  that  greeted  this  candid  outbutstof  native  simplicity.  The 
idea  that  any  Kabyle  poetry  could  possibly  come  into  competition 
with  Shelley's  *'  Skylark  "  was  too  utterly  grotesque  for  the  most 
prosaic  intelligence,  the  Probate  and  Divorc^  Div^'  'on  itself  iii- 
cluded.  They  all  laughed,  biit  they  all  ladghed  with  very 
different  undercurrents  of  inner  emotion. 

Iris,  half-piqued  at  the  idea  that  her  painter  should  have 
repeated  those  exquisite  lines  to  any  other  woman,  yet  couldn't 
help  feeling  at  the  same  time  how  infinitely  Vernon  must  realise 
her  own  superiority  to  poor  barefooted  Meriem.  She,  with  her 
oultivatod  Huroi)eau  mind,  to  be  jealous  of  that  ignorant,  uncul-*, 
tured  Kabyle  girl  1  It  would  be  really  and  truly  quite  too  tidic- 
ulojs. 

Yttuon,  half-ashamed  Meriem  should  thui  innoct^^ J)r  rftke  aj 


rVi  ■■^' 


TIIK   TXNT8  or   SBKM. 


4u; 


his  pftst  evil  (\op.(h  n^^'ainst  liim.yet  couldn't  liolp  fcbling  that  Iris 
must  see  how  utterly  ho  wouM  be  thrown  away  upon  such  a  girl 
as  Meriem.  To  wiisto  himself  on  her,  with  his  poetical  nature, 
when  a  Third  Classic  had  confessed  her  love  for  him,  would,  in- 
deed, ho  little  short  of  simple  wickedness. 

And  J'iUstace,  del if?li  ted  with  Meriem 's  perfect  candour,  thoti^'lit 
to  himself  witli  admiration  how  profound  was  the  imture  of  that 
wild  mountain  lU'irl,  who  could  see  for  herself  on  a  first  glance 
the  wide  j^nilf  tlint  separated  sucli  a  poet  as  Shelley  from  her  own 
fellow-countrymen,  and  could  pick  out  instinctively  from  his 
most  exquisite  poem  the  deepest  and  most  essentially  central 
8urroundin<j's  for  its  free  development,  and  witl^  congenial  com- 
panionship to  gui(fe  and  direct  it! 

What  a  wonderful  passion  is  love  to  warp  apd  bias  our  cplmer 
judgment  1  }lo)\  clearly  it  lets  us  see  one  side  of  a  question,  atid 
how  perfectly  contented  it  makes  us,  not  on||  th  tlje  neryon 
on  whom  it  fixes  its  oblique  glance,  but  with  oui;M.lve8  in-o  the 
bargain,  seen  by  the  reflected  light  of  that  oi-hor  person  b  pro- 
fouTid  admiration  I 

So  they  journeyed  on  merrjly  together  to  Algi  ra,  each  in  a 
vei}  good  '•■•  nourwith  himselt',  and  unhee(|ful  of  t..^'  ♦Inniderho't 
that  Harold  Knyvett  held  in  readiness  w  let  loose  u^ou  thorn  lui 
800.^  as  they  got  then. 


298 


CHS    T£NTS    OF   SU£M. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 


CHECK  I 

At  Algiorg  station  Uncle  Tom  recovrrod  snch  fragments  c 
lugj^age  as  still  remained  to  them  (for  must  of  their  wardrobe  ha*, 
been  desti-oyed  at  St.  Cloud,  so  that  they  were  sorely  in  need  o 
a  rapid  i-  turn  to  their  base  of  supplies  at  Sidi  Aia),  while  Iri.^ 
seized  the  opportunity  to  charter  a  special  Jiane  of  her  owi 
(with  a  picturesque  turbanedArab  driver)  to  mount  the  Mustapha 
Mill  in  quiet  conference  alone  with  Merieni.  The  others  could 
all  go  in  the  big  carriage,  she  said  ;  her  own  carrin^i^e  ;  Uncle 
Tom,  and  mother,  and  Mr.  Dlake,  and  Mr.  Le  Marcliant ;  but 
they  two  girls  would  drive  up  in  solitary  grandeur  m  a  hired  cab; 
for  to  say  the  truth,  the  Third  Classic,  for  all  the  world  liiie  any 
common  boai'cung-school  miss,  was  burning  with  the  desire  to 
have  a  good  tctp-a-tetc  for  half  an  hour  with  her  Kabyle  cousm. 
Uncle  Tom  objected  that  this  course  of  action  would  look  very 
odd  ;  the  young  woman  hadn't  even  got  stockings  to  her  feat  ! 
but  Iris,  of  course,  promptly  overruled  his  futile  objection;  and 
as  Eustace  Le  Marchant  put  in  a  word,  too,  on  the  same  side, 
Uncle  Tom,  overjoyed,  at  least,  at  the  chance  of  separating  the 
heiress  from  that  dangerous  fortune-hunter  for  half  an  hour, 
consented  to  connive  at  the  improper  arrangement. 

"  We  must  keep  her  well  away  from  that  sneaking  naturfilii^G 
fellow,  Amelia,"  he  whispered  in  his  sister's  ear  in  strict  confid- 
ence. "  It's  a  jolly  lucky  thing  it  was  the  painter,  poor  creature, 
who  was  up  with  us  at  Bt.  Cloud  the  night  of  the  fight — he's  an 
innocent  boy,  that,  and  as  shy  as  girls  used  to  be  when  you  and 
Iwerevoung;  but  if  it  had  been  the  other  one,  why,  I'll  bet 
you  a  sovereign  he'd  have  proposed  to  her  outright  on  the 
strength  of  having  got  a  slight  graze  on  his  shoulder  in  the  little 
brush  with  those  brutes  of  Kabyles." 

Uncle  Tom  was  inordinately  proud  of  his  o^^ti  part  in  that 
Uttle  brush,  and  therefore,  of  course,  always  grucnfully  apoke  of 
it,  after  the  fashion  of  our  kind,  with  becomm^'  di«>parugem<uit. 


!!PiWif!J.'*-BJil* 


^fK^mt^m 


^^PP^H^PPP 


THX   TENTS  OV   SHSlf. 


290 


"  Now,  yon  must  tell  me  all  about  it,  Menem,"  Iris  said  at 
once,  as  soon  as  they  were  seated  side  by  side,  incongruously  in 
that  convenient ^acr<?,  and  out  of  earshot,  on  their  way  up  to 
Mustapha.  "  You  know  you're  to  be  my  guest  at  Sidi  Aia,  of 
course  ;  and  before  I  get  there  I've  a  particular  reason  for  want- 
ing to  know  exactly  how  you  stand  with — with  Mr.  Blake  and 
Mr.  Le  Marchant." 

Meriem  smiled  a  curiously  contented  and  suppressed  smile  at 
the  patronising  way  in  which  Iris  comported  herself  as  the 
mistress  of  Sidi  Aia  ;  but  she  went  on,  nevertheless,  with  all 
young  love's  first  gushing  readiness,  to  pour  out  her  story,  her 
strange,  strange,  story,  into  the  sympathetic  ears  of  a  female 
confidante.  She  told  the  whole  tale  with  that  unvarnished 
frankness  which  in  Meriem  resulted  as  a  joint  product  of  Kabyle 
simplicity,  and  the  straightforward  inherited  Knyvett  nature. 
She  suppressed  nothmg;  she  apologised  for  nothing  ;  she  softened 
down  nothing  ;  not  even  how  she  said,  "What  ever  made  me 
think  so  much  of  Vernon  !  "  Iris  smiled  a  little  satisfied  smile 
of  conscious  superiority  when  Meriem  said  in  her  simple  way, 
•*  It  burst  upon  me  all  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  you  know.  Iris ; 
I  thought  to  myself,  with  a  sudden  revulsion,  '  Great  heavens, 
what  have  I  done  ?  Have  I  risked  his  life — Eustace's  life — for 
such  a  man  as  Vernon  ?  He's  worth  a  thousand  times  as  much 
IS  Vernon  Blake  I  And  he  loves  me  as  Vernon  could  never  love 
anyone.'  " 

At  that  Iris's  brow  clouded  over  a  little  for  half  a  second. 
She  hardly  knew  if  she  ought  to  sit  still  and  listen  to  such  sacri- 
lege as  those  words  of  Meriem's.  Her  Vernon  I  her  painter ! 
her  poet  I  her  king  of  men  I  This  Kabyle  girl  dare  so  lightly  to 
reckon  him  up  with  her  own  small  reckoning  I  What  presump- 
tion I  What  audacity  1  What  foolhardy  self-confidence  I  .  .  . 
.  .  .  But  at  any  rate  she  was  free  to  marry  Vernon  now  I  Free 
to  marry  that  man  she  so  loved  I  For  that,  she  could  forgive  a 
ureat  deal  to  Meriem  1 

And  when  Meriem  ended  at  last,  with  her  transparent  guile- 
Icssness — "  So  then,  Iris,  he  just  drew  me  down  to  his  sofa  and 
sissed  me,  and  I  laid  my  head,  so,  on  his  shoulder  and  cried,  and 
Ads,  oh,  so  luippy,  so  unspeakably  happy  I  " — the  mollified  Gir- 
lon  girl  fell  half  inclined,  there  in  the  open  road,  on  the 
Mustapha  hill,  to  fling  her  arms  around  her  newly-found  cousin's 
eck,  and  ki^s  the  barefooted  Kabyle  maiden  then. and  there 
("fore  th«  eyes  of  wondtring  passers  by,  Arab  or  European. 
:  ove  i«  80  very  much  alike  at  bulloui,  after  all,  is  &11  of  ai  I 


80(1 


ttiJE  itujs  of  i&Eil; 


•*  And  now,  trl^,"  Uetieth  cHed,  iri  conclusion,  Hblding  her 
oonnin'g  gloved  hand  tight  ill  her  dwil  bare  gloVeless  fingers,  "  I 
want  you  and  Vernon  to  he  mai'ried  to  bhe  another,  and  to  be 
rich  and  happv,  arid  tb  livd  as  ybu  Hke  at  8idi-Aia." 

•'  But  70U  mtist  have  ^othe  of  my  mbiiey,  too,  "  Iris  eifelaimed, 
with  6fftlsit)n,  regdrdles^  of  Uncle  Tom's  oft-itferated  advice. 
•  You  must  let  me  share  it  with  you — not,  half,  jierhaps,  but  as 
much  as  Uncle  Tdrti  thitl?*"  right  and  pf-bptei-." 

Meriem  smiled  a  r^titieht  smile — that  Curious  smile  that  Iris 
had  noticed  so  often  this  iilorning. 

••  I'll  take  some  of  Sir  Arthur's  thbhe^,  if  you  wish  it,"  she 
answered,  sedately,  not  like  one  who  accepts  a  favour,  but  with  a 
certain  grand  reserve  vv-hich  struck  Iris  at  once,  as  did  also  the 
altered  phrase,  "  Sir  Arthur's  money."  "  Biit  Eustace  and  jrour 
uncle  will  settle  all  that  between  them,  I  dare  say.  Of  course, 
I  don't  understand  such  things  as  thesJei.  Whatever  you  asirtinge, 
Eustabe  and  I  will  be  well  satisfied." 

Tiiey  turned  round  the  corner  at  the  Colonne  Vbitol — Meriem 
all  aghast,  internally,  as  she  went  along  the  road  at  the  grandeur 
and  magnificence  bl'  the  great  white  Moorish  villas  that  studded 
the  hillside  after  the  nairow  streets  and  rough  stone  huts  of  her 
native  mountains — and  swept  at  last  into  the  broad  drive  of  a 
tinul  white  villa,  more  stately  and  magnificent  and  imposing  than 
any  of  them.  Meriom's  heart  rose  up  in  her  mouth  at  once  at 
the  sight.  So  this  wiis  Sidi  Ala  I  This  was  Yusuf's  inheritance! 
This  was  the  palace  that  once  might  have  been  hers  I  But,  like 
Caractacus  at  Home,  she  envied  it  not.  She  was  glad  it  had 
•^one  to  Vernon  an<i  Ins. 

What  had  she  to  ijo  with  grand  villas  like  these?  "With 
Eustace  by  her  sule,  she  cqukl  be  happy  anywhere. 

The  carriage  had  passed  tlieni  on  the  slope  of  the  hill,  and 
arrived  at  the  door  half  a  minute  earlier.  Vernon  Blake  was 
there  ah'eady,  waiting  to  give  the  heiress  his  hand  as  she  alighted 
from  ihejinrre  at  her  own  proud  porch.  She  took  it  tenderly, 
with  a  faii:it  pressure.  lie  lialf-guessed  what  that  meant  as  he 
mounted  the  steps  gaily  by  her  side  into  the  first  outer  court, 
with  its  marble  fountain,  its  iloor  of  painted  tiles,  its  palms  and 
orange  trees,  its  luxuriant  basin  of  waving  water-weeds.  His 
painter's  eye  loo'ced  round  with  delight  on  that  perfect  specimen 
of  old  Moorish  Architecture.  Nothing  more  beautiful  had  he 
•seen  in  Africa.  The  exquisite  arcade,  the  long  line  0^  pillars, 
the  glorious  display  of  antique  tiles,  the  depth  of  shadow  in  the 
recess  of  the  doorway,  ail  charmed  and  intoxicated  his  artistic 


'P'^T 


^m^* 


IBM   TXNTB   or   gUKM. 


601 


instinct.  It  was  a  pure  delight  to  Iris  thus  to  show  oflf  her  own 
dc>main  in  all  its  beauty  to  the  man  whom  she  now  looked  upon 
as  its  unconscious  but  predestined  future  possessor.  "It's 
lovely,  Mr.  Blake,"  she  sq-id,  turning  round  to  him  with  a  smile 
of  quiet  pride ;  •'  very  lovely,  isn't  it  ?" 

And  Vernon  Blake,  gazing  about  with  a  sigh,  ejaculated  fer- 
vidly, '•  It's  more  than  lovely.  It's  a  painter's  dream.  Anything 
so  exquisite  I  hardly  thought  existed  in  solid  stone  on  this  poor 
little  planet  of  ours.  How  proud  you  must  be  .  •  .  Miss 
Knyvett    .    .    .    to  be  its  possessor  t" 

Iris's  eye  had  an  unwonted  twinkle  in  it.  "  Do  you  remember 
the  Lord  of  Burleigh  ?"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  with  an 
audacious  smile.  The  Girton  boldness  was  surely  breaking  out 
at  last  in  the  girl.  ••  Well,  what  Meriem  has  told  me  on  the 
way  up  this  morning  has  made  me  myself  into  a  sort  of  inverted 
topsy-turvy  Lady  of  Burleigh."  She  took  his  hand  once  more, 
before  Uncle  Tom's  very  eyes,  apd  led  him  with  wondering  feet 
into  the  broad  white  court.  '•  Proudly  turned  she  round  and 
kindly,"  she  quoted  low,  with  a  change  in  the  gender  alone:  "All 
of  this  is  mine  and  thine  !"  ''     , 

*•  You  mean  it.  Ins  ?  "  he  cried,  with  blinded  eyes. 

••  I  mean  it,"  she  answered,  simply,  in  a  whispered  voice. 
'*  And  I  am  yours,  too ;  I,  too,  am  yours  for  ever,  Vernon." 

As  she  spoke.  Uncle  Tom,  who  was  following  them  close,  drew 
back  suddenly  with  a  startled  cry  of  surprise  and  indignation. 
••  God  bless  my  soul  I  "  he  exclaimed,  eagerly.  "  What  the  devil 
is  that  fellow  doing  here,  I  wonder  ?  " 

Iris  lifted  up  her  eyes  at  these  unexpected  words,  and  looked 
in  the  direction  where  Uncle  Tom  was  indignantly  waving  his 
heavy  red  hand.  There,  on  the  top  step  of  the  short  flight  of 
stairs  that  led  from  the  outer  to  the  inner  court,  stood 
xiarold  Knyvett,  bowing  and  smiling,  with  arms  outspread  on 
cither  side  of  him,  in  an  attitude  of  profuse  and  generous 
hospitality. 

His  fingers  did'nt  tremble  or  his  mouth  twitch  now.  He  had 
schooled  himself  by  violent  efforts  for  some  days  before  to  bear 
the  shock  of  that  supreme  interview.  Not  a  feature  but  was 
under  complete  control.  His  face  was  calm,  with  a  sweet  smile  of 
conscious  triumph.  But  he  was  bland  and  benignant  too,  with  a 
rose  in  his  buttonhole ;  for  he  meant  to  win  Iris  as  well  as  the 
property.  He  stood  there  waving  them  in  like  a  great  proprietor 
with  a  lordly  iweep  of  his  delicate  hand ;  come  one,  come  all. 


802 


THX    TXNT8    OF   8H2M. 


(hey  flhonld  taste  his  fare  in  his  newly  acquired  home  with 
princely  munificence. 

'♦  Why,  goodnesa  gracious,  there's  Harold  1  *'  Mrs.  Knyvett 
exclaimed,  with  a  benign  nod  of  the  condescending  feature. 
•*  How  kind  of  him,  really  I  But  he's  always  so  nice.  He's  run 
across  to  Algiers  to  bring  me  my  bronchitis  kettle  I" 

As  for  Iris,  she  looked  up  at  that  complacent  figure  in  a  vague 
dismay.  Meriem,  too  absorbed  in  other  affairs,  had  forgotten  to 
tell  her  of  the  bad  man's  presence  at  a  villa  at  Mustapha.  She 
hardly  knew  in  her  confusion  what  to  make  of  the  scene  ;  when 
suddenly  Harold  enlightened  her  at  a  bound  by  coming  down 
a  step  or  two  with  a  polite  bow,  and  exclaiming  point-bhink 
at  her  in  his  courtliest  voice,  *•  Good  morning,  Iris  ;  how 
d'ye  do,  Aunt  Amelia;  I'm  delighted,  I'm  sure,  to  welcome  you 
both — and  Mr.  Whitmarsh  too — as  my  guests  in  my  home  at. 
Sidi  Aia  I  " 

Iris  shrank  back  with  a  shudder  of  dismay.  His  home  at  Sidi 
Aia  I  Was  the  earth  going  to  fail  beneath  her  feet  ?  What  a 
bombshell  1     What  a  thunderboU  1 


■i"' 


TB£    XKNTS   01    8HBU. 


801 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 


CONDITIONS   OF    PEACE. 

"  Well,  but  what  does  he  mean,  dear?"  Mrs.  Knyrett  waa 

t'.  first  to  ask,  with  a*  gasp,  breaking  the  ominous  silence  thai 

il  for  a  moment  over  tlie  whole  hushed  Httle  group  at  the 

und  of  Harold's  strangely  signilicant  words. 

"  I  ....  I  don't  know,  mannua,"  Iris  answered,  undaunted 

.ill  in  heart,  but  taken  aback  somewhat  by  Harold's  resolute 

ttitude.     "  I  think  he  must  mean  that  ....  that  he  has  some 

!aim  or  other  we  haven't  yet  heard  about  to  Sidi  Ala." 

"  He    means  confounded    ijnputlonce ;   that's  just  what  he 

means,"  Uncle  Tom  burst  out,  with  a  burly  bluster,  walking  up 

the  step  to  confront  his  opponent,  angrily.     '*  The  fellow's  been 

Juggling  in  your  absence  with  Sir  Arthur's  letters  and  papers,  I 

-iuppose,   and  thinks  he's   succeeded  in  muddling  up  a  claim 

gainst  you.     But  it  won't  do.     I'm  not  the  man  to  be  put  off 

v'itli  that  sort  of  humbug.     He's  got  the  wrong  person  by  the 

•ar  this  time  to  deal  with." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Knyvett,  Miss  Knyvett,"  old  Sarah  cried  out,  in 

dismay,  rushing  down  the  steps  and  flinging  her  arms  round 

I  ris's  neck,  passionately  ;  "  it  isn't  my  fault,  my  dear.     I  couldn't 

help  it.    Mr.  Knyvett,, he  came  over  here  three  days  ago,  or  there, 

vith  a  paper  in  his  hand  ;  and  he  said  how  he'd  found  a  new 

vill,  and  how  the  house  and  grounds  was  all   his,  and  he  was 

ome  to  stay,  and  I  must  look  upon  him,  henceforth,  as  a  master, 

md  that  kind  of  thing.     And   I   said,  had  he  any  orders  from 

.  ()u  ?     And  he  said,  no,  he  hadn't ;  he  needed  no  orders  ;  he 

ame  entirely  on  his  own  authority;  and  Sidi  Aia  was  his  own, 

ot  a  bit  of  yours  ;  but  he'd  be  glad  to  welcome  you  back  for  a 

liile,  as   liis  guest,  to  it.     And  what  could  1  do,  my  dear,  with 

111  coinii!i(  like  that,  and  threatening  to  call  in  the  gendarmes  il 

frit'd  ti)  ifsist  him  I  " 

As  ahf  apuke,  Harold  moved  slowly  down  the  steps  towards  Iris. 


B04 


THE    TKNT8   OW   8RRM. 


lie  cast  an  angry  glance  towards  Uncle  Tom  as  he  passed— 
surely  those  Kabyle  fellows,  if  they  were  anything  of  shots, 
might  have  managed  to  put  a  hole  through  that  broad  mark,  his 
waistcoat,  and  rid  him  at  once  of  a  dangerous  and  experiencec 
opponent  I  The  least  among  the  marksmen  of  Wimbledon 
could  not  have  missed  it.  Hut,  no  matter  lor  that ;  the  day  was 
lys,  quontl  riinnft.  He  had  fairly  conquered  all  along  the  line. 
He  could  afford  now  to  be  gentlemanly  and  generous.  And  to  a 
nan  of  taste,  Hke  Harold  Knyvett,  tl|e  expansive  and  liberal 
^^entlemanly  policy  is  always,  in  the  end,  the  pleasantest  and 
most  con^'t'nial  one. 

"  Iris,'  he  murmured,  coming  up  to  ber  close,  with  a  sickly 
smile,  and  hol4ipg  put  an  obtrusively  cordial  hand,  which  Iris, 
ip  lior  righteous  wratl^,  did  not  deign  so  much  as  to  notice, 
"  tlien.'H  no  necessity  for  any  scene  just  here.  1  desire  this 
matter  sliould  at  tifst  be  talked  out  in  a  fnentUy  wtiy.  ^s  between 
|)rincij>aiS  alone.  An  ^.njieable  arrangement  on  tVmiily  grounds 
would,  1  siu'e,  be  easiest  and  most  pleasinj;;  tp  ^11  of  us.  ISucli 
an  arvaii^uaiept  I  can  readily  submit  to  you  if  you'll  allow  me 
the  pliicisure  of  twenty  innmtes'  conversation  vyith  you  alone  in 
my  library.  Perhfips  you  coald  spare  me  so  mucn  jus);  now  of 
your  valuable  time.  Sp  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  bloomnig  too. 
in  spite  of  your  shoclf.  It's  best  we  should  uiidtn'-slauJ  one 
another  distinctly,  you  know,  from  the  very  beginning." 

*•  1  shall  decidedly  object  to  any  propoatii,!  of  the  sort."  Uiicle 
Tom  burst  out,  witl|  a  very  red  frice,  blocking  the  staircase  with 
bis  capacious  frame.  '*  If  Iris  desires  to  hold  any  business  com- 
munication of  any  sort  with  you,  the  regular  thing  will  be  for  her 
to  contluct  ber  cat^e " 

But  Ins  cut  him  short,  before  he  could  get  any  further,  with 
m  imperious  nod  of  her  self-willed  little  head.  'I'hough  her 
[physical  courage  had  failed  her  completely  before  the  cut-throat 
bands  of  the  insurgent  Kabyles,  she  had  moral  counige  enou.nh 
left  still  to  face  a.  hundred  interviews  with  her  cousin  Ilarolil. 
She  knew  what  the  man  wanted  as  well  as  if  he  bad  told  her, 
and  she  preferred  to  say  No  to  that  degrading  projiosa.l  before 
the  eyes  of  no  living  witness.  If  Harold  must  again  inhult  her 
by  the  hateful  offer  of  his  hand — that  lying,  scheming,  mean 
wretch  of  a  Harold — at  least  she  would  take  care  he  did  not 
insult  her  before  the  face  even  of  her  own  nearest  and  dearest 
relations. 

"  I'll  go  with  him,  Uncle  Tom  Jyar,"  she  put  in  boldly,  sooth- 
ing his  arm  with  her  tiny  hand.   "  I'm  not  afraid  to  conducts  my 


V 


THT-  T'-v+fi  o#  iiticii* 


BOB 


with 
her 
roat 
u.^h 
roul. 
her, 
fore 
her 
lean 
not 
iresl 


own  case  hi  ^^rsoil,  in  iJv..    ..  ..i  llul-,  iii&HU  ^b^.     fearbld  has 

adiliili^  tb  Say  td  tii6, 1  kiiow,  tliat  vbii^  JirBauuce  could  in  any 
way  ihflUfeiib^.  I'll  Sfettle  this  qiiestibh  witli  liiiii  alpha.  Tbu 
and  he  can  talk  dv^ir  business  ari'ahgiBtTieiiitB  ibgethei:  aher- 
w#ds." 

Hai*bld  ilfccefitad  ilie  last  sentence  at  btice  ad  all  tiit  equivalent 
to  &  t^ai-tidl  feiirl-eiider,  and  siiiiled  benignly,  with  his  pi-bspective 
triumph.  In  the  hour  of  success  he  would  not  be  hard  upon  the 
fallen  fd^.  •*  t^etliflps,"  lie  rertiarked.  Js^ith  jild  blaiidest. ,  West 
End  Jidiii^hiBsa,  •*  your  riibtlier  and  Mir.  Wliitmairsh  will  step 
intd  ihj^  di-awiiig-rddiTi  ahd  take  a  cliair  while  tney  wkit  foir  us 
for  the  present,  Iris.  And  the  lady  in  the  bare  feel,  too — I 
haven't  tlie  pliBasUre  b^hei*  persbrial  acqiiaintatibe,  it's  true — but 
still,  as  she  seems  to  be  dne  of  the  party — 1  daie  say,  Sarah,  you 
cari  tiiake  Iter  cdihfbrtable  in  the  kitchen  somehow." 

He  didn't  suspect,  of  pbi^rse,  tl^at  B|eriem  could , understand 
him ;  hut  the  nery  ilush  that  mantled  the  Kabyle  girl's  sunburnt 
face,  fi'oni  f<'i-uhead  to  neck,  was  i^ai;dlyB0^  intense  as  tnat  which 
dverspreadjria's  jsensitiveoheek  at  this  unintentional  rpdenessto 
her  brave  Aigerian  cousin.  Even,. Uncle  Jori\,  w|io  had  never 
been  predi.spf)sp(,l  in  favour  of  the  Qlaimant,  bu,t  whose  personal 
dislike  to,  t;iat  Paynim  maiden  had  been  .naturally  lessened  by  tlie 
story  of  her  gallant  attempt  tp  cross  the  li^ountains  for  their 
safety's  snlcG,  ^ill.it  no\v  san}{  all  ^t  dace  to  pro.,  being  metamor- 
phosed into  a  feeling  of  positive  friendliness  ny  the  suddeti  appear- 
ance on  the  scene  of  this,  new  impdstor — pvan  Uncle  Tom  hiiii- 
self  turned,  round  to  the.  bldshirig,  Kfebyle  girl  kindly,  with  a  still 
deeper  tint  reddening  his  already  rod  and  indignant  face,  and 
laying  his  hand  on  her  shpulder,  ,said  to  hfer  ih,  his  most  gehtly 
paternal  voice,  "  Come  along,  Merie^ii  my  child;  you  must  be 
tired  alter  y,oar  journey  ;  ,wfe'll  go  and  take  a  seat,  till  this  busi- 
ness is  linislivil,  in  .IHs's  drawiilg-room." 

But  Iris  folJowod  ,Iiarold  blindly  irlto  the  library,  and  there  fell 
rather  than  seu^ed  liei-self  ill  the  big  Arm  chair,  while  the  now 
proprietor  of  Sidi  Aia  took  a  place  at  some  distance  on  the  divan 
opposite. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  said  coldly,  as  he  wriggled  into  his  seat,  lobking 
up  in  his  face  with  a  defiant  expi-ession. 

"  Well,"  ililrold  replied,  keeping  his  eves  directly  fixed  on 
hers,  lest  she  should  have  it  to  sdy  that  he  dldn't.dare  to  look  her 
in  the  face ;  "  I  suppose  you  can  guess  what  this  means,  Iri«. 
The  storj 'i  a  short  one.     Briefly,  I  was  suffering  from  nervouf 


:''■/-' 


906 


TSB  TXNTg  OV  Sir 


irritation  at  the  office  in  London — overwork,  I  suppose,  entailing 
loss  of  memory — so  I  consulted  Yate-Westbury,  the  well-known 
specialist  on  such  cases,  who  advised  me  to  try  a  trip  to  Algiers. 
And  that,  you  see,  accounts  for  my  coming  here." 

**I  see,"  Iris  answered,  gazing  back  at  him  stonily.  He 
quavered  before  the  steady  stare  of  those  beautiful  blue  eyes, 
but  he  kept  on  nevertheless  upon  his  straight  path  with  cynical 
fortitude. 

"  Well,  after  I  got  here,  stopping  next  door  as  I  did  with  Tate- 
Westbury,  I  naturally  took  an  early  opportunity  of  calling  round, 
and  looking  over  Uncle  Arthur's  place,  by  good  old  Sarah's  kind 
permission." 

"  I  see,"  Iris  replied  once  more,  with  rigid  emphasis.  "  In 
short,  you  took  an  early  opportunity,  after  your  kind,  of  prowling 
about  my  house  while  I  was  away  by  deluding  my  servant  with 
the  practically  untrue  excuse  of  cousinhood." 

Harold  winced.  '*  Not  your  house,  Iris,"  he  answered, 
abruptly,  and  with  some  asperity.  "  That's  exactly  what  I'm 
coming  to.  You  anticipate  too  iiast.  But  just  at  first,  of  course, 
I  wasn't  aware  of  that  myself.  Ho^'ever,  as  it  happens,  I  didn't 
come  uninvited.  I  called  at  Aunt  Amelia's  special  request  to 
bring  her  bronchitis  kettle,  whi6h  I'd  carried  all  the  way  from 
London ;  and  Sarah,  learning  I  was  Sir  Arthur's  nephew, 
naturally  asked  me  in  to  view  the  villa — a  piece  of  hospitality 
which  you,  apparently,  would  not  have  extended  to  your  own 
relations." 

Iris  bowed  courteously.  "  You  interpret  my  eentimenta  with 
absolute  correctness,"  she  replied,  in  the  same  cold  and  freezing 
tone  as  ever. 

**  We  shall  see  about  that  soon,*'  Harold  went  on,  with  a  faint 
attempt  at  something  like  gallantry.  "Iris,  let's  be  reasonable. 
I  don't  want  to  be  hard  upon  you.  I  don't  want  to  quarrel.  I 
•Arant  to  be  friends.  We  were  children  together,  you  know,  and 
always  friendly.  Let's  be  friendly  still ;  don't  let  a  matter  of 
money  come  between  us  like  a  shadow.  I'm  prepared  to  make 
a  liberal  arrangement,  a  most  liberal  arrangement,  if  you'll  only 
listen  to  reason.  But  wait  awhile  for  that ;  facts  first ;  this  is 
what  happened.  I  brought  Yate-Westbury  to  the  house  quite 
casually  one  afternoon,  and  as  he  was  trying  a  lot  of  keys  on  a 
concealed  drawer  in  Sir  Arthur's  davenport,  suddenly,  to  his 
^turprise,  one  of  them  fitted  it.  Well,  he  opened  the  drawer,  ol 
ooUKM,  and  turned  over  the  papers ;  and  tuuong  them,  to  mj 


1 


•07 


fanmenM  astonishment,  as  well  as  his  own/* — Irii  bit  her  lip  to 

stifle  a  sarcastic  smile — "came  across  a  will  of  Sir  Arthur's, 
later  in  date  than  the  one  yon  found  in  London,  leaving  every- 
thing absolutely  to  me,  and  naming  me  also  as  sole  executor. 
So  that  Sidi  Aia  and  all  the  English  property's  really  mine. 
And  I  grieve  to  say  your  not  benefited  a  iingle  penny  by  Uie  final 
disposition." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  Iris  asked,  with  an  impatient  movement,  gazing 
at  him  frigidly. 

"  No,  that's  not  all,"  Harold  answered,  rising  from  the  divan, 
and  drawing  a  chair  very  tentatively  a  foot  or  two  nearer  to  his 
pretty  cousin.  ••  Iris,"  and  he  leant  across  towards  her  with  a 
persuasive  air  and  a  killing  smile,  •'  I  know  you  don't  want  to  be 
friends — that's,  unfortunately,  obvious  ;  but  I  can't  bear  to  think 
this  money  should  sever  us — this  wretched  money — a  mere  mat- 
ter of  a  few  acres  of  land  and  a  few  pounds  at  the  banker's — w« 
who  were  always  such  good  friends  before — and  I,  who  have 
always  loved  you  as  a  cousin,  and  have  lately  learned  how  much 
more  profoundly  and  intimately  I  loved  you  as  a  friend  and  an 
admirer,  not  to  say  as  a  lover.  I  couldn't  bear.  Iris,  to  deprive 
you  of  your  wealth,  or,  rather,  of  the  wealth  you  once  erroneously 
supposed  to  be  yours  ;  and  I'm  longing  to  make  a  proposition  to 
you  now  which  wiU  leave  it  yours  just  as  fully  as  ever.  I  don't 
want  you  to  give  me  an  answer  at  once — in  your  present  frame 
of  mind,  I'm  afraid  I  know  what  that  answer  would  be — I  want 
delay,  I  want  respite  ;  I  want  you  to  turn  the  matter  over  and 
consider  it.  .  .  .  Iris,  I  asked  you  to  marry  me  once.  You  were 
then,  you  thought,  rich,  and  I  was  a  beggar.  To-day,  you  see, 
the  tables  are,  unhappily,  turned.  It  is  I  who  am  rich,  and  you 
who  have  practically  next  to  nothing.  I  regret  the  change,  but 
I  won't  let  you  lose  by  it.  For  your  sake,  for  your  dear  sake, 
I'm  willing  that  things  should  remain  almost  the  same  as  ever. 
If,  after  due  consideration,  you  can  find  it  in  your  heart  to  change 
vour  mind,  and  consent  to  marry  me,  I'll  make  a  settlement  of 
half  the  property  upon  you,  so  that  you  will  still  be  rich,  and,  as 
my  wife,  will  practically  possess  it  all  absolutely.  .  ,  .  Now, 
don't  answer  at  once,  Irid ;  take  time  to  think.  Remember,  I 
adore  you,  I  worship  you,  I  love  you  ;  and  what  I  care  about  in 
this  is  not  the  money — the  paltry,  miserable,  wretched  money — 
I'd  fling  that  in  the  sea  if  I  could  gain  your  approbation  by  so 
doing — but  you,  my  beloved,  my  queen,  my  darling.  I  loYtyoo, 
Irii,  and  I  mmt,  I  will,  I  ihall  make  yon  marry  m«  t** 


™' 


m 


m  inn  «»  m^« 


l^e  Vf^^mt  \\  as  lie  spoke— hp  fpei^^t  every  lyppl  pf  i^.     T\m  pro- 

:}pr]Re  Of  t\\^t  vm  mn  ^99'^^i^\  ml  liM  msw\  biro  for  a  mo 

inpnt»  rqgue  a-nd  fprgpf  ^8  {)^  ^a^,  oiu  of  hi^  pwn  vilt?  ndf 
.^pd  lie  felt  lip  cp^lq  fpaljy  (jipg  i\\u,  unv^ty  mtQ  tlie  Medittiniu' 
4f]— tl^at  s^pjen  qiqnftjf— if  9nl.y  l>fi  PPhM  wjn  Iri.s's  loye  by  io 
iiin<2:ing  it.  Her  swoet  fiice  kept  down  for  awhile  tlie  jini  I 
i|i:ip^}f3e^  tl^lf^  Stfuggjpjj  fqi:  im'^WH  wiMmi  I'lin-  He  wttiquiv.-r- 
ing  with  excitement,  but  it  was  the  hoiieste.st  expiteil^^eut  he  hail 
k|-|pwp  fof  i|ippt|}3— th|^  ^ane^sf.  t||p  pijr^sj;.  the  leW  lelfish  tttid 
«!;|f-"ceii|;fffl.  \U  Ipn^wl  j'qr  Irjii  tP  JJ"^9}'  1»}S  >K^'tvlt|i  ;  he  longed 
jip  ^lij^re  hi§  >vp^ltlj  Wj^b  Irjj^.  I  h  i\  jcjea  for  the  s»)i;ond  k«'i)l  hiin 
iluratiiy  Sij,i)j4.  fj^  vifi|,§  ivlipost  if;^  ra-tipUi]-!  and  (jullmjtod  an  »)ve|r. 
fiijt  lci§  rose  ^s  l^^  fipisl<«d  his  spM^ich— that  vile  aput«ch  of 

jjt^— |;^^^' vjfretpb  H'l'P  JHf!tf«fl  H^r  «P  mu^Jb  by  hia  pwo  vile 
fi^pc^afc]  ^]}^t  |i^  tfliQUi,'!)^  }|e  cpujd  \}^y  Iris  Jvnyvett  foe  money— 
.jfi  s|,ffpdii|g  Ijfifore  ]\\]i\  s\}\]\'\\}i§,  in  jjer  full  heigbt  {how  imppg- 
(ij  ^  gqqd  wPflHI'P  IprH^  in  bp''  five  fi.?tt  8i5^  pf  rigljteoua  iiii|igna- 
ipn  I)  sbp  ar|s\yec^i|  l^iin   Rj^sgiopj^tply,  >yith  ft  wild  outl^urst  of 

peepfi;    ••feyer!    Npypj^j     NEVliiil     ^fEVKUt 

lq,rQJ^,  I  r]ep4  P9  ^i^fi  ip  aopsi4er.  I  dpp't  want  to  ppjlute  my- 
self by  ije^nng  ^diat  ypH  b^ye  tP  ^sy.  1  loathe  and  dptost 
/qu  fqr  yo\]if  mxA^  ^PflPPilP^i  jib^t  d«.y  at  Kensington.  I  loathe 
mq  dptesji  yoH  fpr  ypur  horrid  attempt  to  buy  pne  tp-day.  I 
{op't  knp>y  wbetlier  ypij  fp|:ged  tbis  will  or  not ;  I  don't  know 
.ylietber  Unqjp  Tpm  cg-p  figbtypw  pver  it  or  not ;  I  don't  know 
wjipt jipr  you  cap  fijch  awa^^  my  prpperty  or  npt ;  but  rich  pr  pppr, 
fpfger  or  lip,r,  pucce^s  pf  l^ilnre,  I'U  never  m^rry  you — never, 
pey^]:,  pevef,  p^yer.  Fqf  money  I  care  a  great  deal  less  than 
pojihing.  Ypu  may  do  your  worst  but  ypu  wpn't  alter  me.  And 
lesji  ypp  sbpuld  st;i|l  cpntinue  tp  hppe,  and  scheme,  and  plan, 
an4  ^W9J  Vf^^  witb  yPUr  bPi^^ible  attentipns  and  yPur  base  pro- 
pps^l^,  i'U  tell  ypu  tbe  truth  at  poe  fell  blow :  I've  already 
q,ppppj)e4  »  better  mm  tban  ypu — ten  thousand  times  better ;  an^ 
.  [f  we  §tarye  tpgetber,  tbrough  your  machinations,  him  I'll  marry 
and  np  pt|ier.  And  sbe  mpved  tpwards  the  dopr  with  that 
resplute  aif  wbiflb,  as  Harpld  Knyvett  instinctively  perceived, 
implied  tb^t  the  qnestipn  between  them  was  clpsed  for  ever. 

^^rq|d  fpllpwed  her  thrpugh  the  stately  Saracenic  archway, 

fc^|r(ipg  tbe  reipstftte^  button  with  a  nervous  twitching  in  his 

rrpmwPPf  fipgers.    *'  Very  gppd,"  he  said,  cpldly,  the    devil 

.  itnin  him  r§-a8^erting  itf  hateful  sway  pnoe  mora,    i*  \yB  ove^ 


fin^wvmm. 


Twmmim. 


wm 


wm 


.wa: 


dtyil 


tti  tXMtB   Of  SBJlM. 


809 


war,  then,  to  the  knife,  Misa  Knyvett.  You  leave  yourself  no 
door  for  escape  or  mercy.  This  will  shall  be  proved — and  you'll 
be  beggared — beggared  I  " 

Iris  didn't  see  him  as  she  swept  from  the  room  with  her  back 
turned  to  him.  If  she  had,  she  would  have  observed  that  his  face 
as  he  spoke,  for  all  his  calmness,  was  distorted  with  rage,  and 
hideous  to  gaze  upon.  U  bokea  like  the  fucu  of  a  devil,  or  a 
maniao. 


**  "^^  '^^'jii^mmmMnm  mtt^mi^^  ^«^w 


'^m^i/i  ^^«I*k'»%MUhA<W.»Hin«>  . 


nio 


\ ', 


ffU   TKNTS   or   ■HKM. 


CHAPTER  li. 


OPEN    WAB. 

In  the  drawing-room  opposite,  Uncle  Tom  was  seated  on  a: 
oriental  ottoman  in  the  pretty  arched  recess  between  the  tw< 
deep  windows,  while  Meriem  by  his  side,  with  eyes  oast  round  ii 
wonder  upon  that  beautiful  room,  was  conversing  with  the  red 
faced  old  gentleman  eagerly  and  unreservedly  as  to  what  thebac 
man  could  possibly  want  with  dear  Iris.     This  denouement  wa 
worse,  indeed,  than  her  worst  anticipations.     It  was  clear  tlu 
bad  man  had  asserted  his  claim  to  ruin  Iris.     In  the  centre  oi 
the  room,  Mrs.  Knyvett  occupied  her  active  mind  in  turning ovti 
the  ornaments  on  the  occasional  tables,  unconscious  of  the  crisis, 
to  see  if  they'd  been  properly  dusted  in  her  daughter's  absence  ; 
while  on  one  side  Eustace  and  Vernon  were  conversing  in  an 
undertone,  exchanging  ideas  on  this  sudden  alteration  in  the 
aspect  of  their  joint  matrimonial  prospects.    To  whom,  tims 
engaged,  enter  Iris  with  a  sweep,  her  face  showing  all  the  air  of 
a  tragedy  queen  ;  close  followed  by  Harold  in  the  rear,  composing 
his  features  with  great  diflficulty  into  a  sufficiently  calm  and 
quiet  frame  to  suit  his  expected  interview  with  that  old  fool 
"Whitmarsh. 

As  they  entered,  Uncle  Tom  rose  abruptly,  and  motioned  Iris 
to  a  seat  by  the  window  with  old-fashioned  courtesy.  The  dis- 
comfited heiress  sat  down  with  emphasis  by  Meriem's  side, 
holding  her  cousin's  hand  tight  in  her  own.  Meriem  guessed 
from  her  hot  flushed  face  and  her  downcast  eyes  what  the  bad 
man  had  been  saying  to  discompose  her.  But  Harold  drew  up  a 
chair  as  if  nothing  out  of  the  usual  had  lately  happened,  and 
addressed  his  discourse  at  once  with  ostentatious  franimess  to  the 
ruffled  old  barrister. 

"  M.  Whitmarsh,"  he  said,  fumbling  with  one  hand  in  his 
breast  pocket  for  a  well-known  paper,  •*  a  worldly-wise  person, 
with  the  fear  of  litigation  before  his  eyes,  would  not,  perhaps, 
take  the  bold  itep  I  am  about  to  take.  He  would  leave  you  to 
find  out  at  your  leisure  for  your  own  side  the  line  of  action  he 


by 


^m 


tWM  TXMTt  OV  tHEM. 


611 


ied  on  fi: 

the  tw( 

round  ii 

the  red 

at  theba( 

eynent  wa: 

clear  tli( 

centre  ol 

rning  over 

the  crisis, 

absence  ; 

5iug  in  an 

on  in  the 

'horn,  tJius 

the  air  of 

composing 

calm  and 

t  old  fool 

ioued  Iris 
The  dis- 
sm's  side, 
a  guessed 
.t  the  bad 
di-ew  up  a 
ened,  and 
^ess  to  the 

id  in  his 
e  person, 
perhaps, 
e  you  to 
botioB  hi 


proposed  to  adopt,  and  allow  yon  to  govern  yourself  as  bnst  you 
might  accordingly.  13ui  this  present  Iiu^s'mcsh  hcs.  fortunately, 
aU  within  the  umily.  We're  all  rehaions,  and  all,  1  trust, 
friends." 

**  No,'*  ancle  Tom  tlmndorod  out  sullenly,  and  then  was 
silent. 

"  All  relations  or  connoctlnns,  at  least,"  Harold  went  on,  lesF 
glibly,  fumbling  still  with  his  ri^ht  hand  in  a  nervous  way  in 
that  left  breast-pocket ;   "  and  you're  all  now  staying  as  guest 
in  my  house,  so  that  I'm  nuturally  anxious,  as  a  mere  matter  c 
hospitality,  to  do  the  straightforward  and  honourable  thing  b, 
every  one  of  you." 

"  The  determination  does  you  the  highest  credit,"  Uncle  Ton 
interposed,  eying  him  close  and  long  through  his  forensid  eye 
glass. 

"  And  I  think  it  right,  therefore,  to  explain  to  you  here  at  full 
length  what  I've  just  been  explaining  in  hasty  outline  in  the 
hbrary  to  Iris." 

He  drew  the  paper — that  precious  paper — with  a  flourish  from 
his  left  breast-pocket,  and  deposited  -  j,  with  much  show  of 
internal  reluctance,  on  the  little  Moorish  occasional  table.  Then, 
in  slow  and  deliberate  words,  he  repeated  once  more  at  greater 
length  the  ofiBcial  story,  so  to  speak,  of  its  accidental  discovery 
by  Dr.  Yate-Westbury  in  the  secret  drawer  of  Sir  Arthur's 
davenport.  Uncle  Tom  listened  with  settled  expression  of  pro- 
found scepticism  on  his  acute  round  face.  "  Ah,  well,  my  fine 
fellow,"  he  thou;i;ht  to  himself,  with  an  internal  smile  of  malici- 
ous triumph  at  Harold  s  approaciiing  discomfiture,  *•  you've  done 
for  yourself  this  time,  anyhow,  you  may  be  certain.  The  thing's 
a  forgery,  as  sure  as  a  gun ;  and  if  it's  a  forgery,  I'm  cocksure 
to  be  able  to  detect  it."  But  Harold,  never  heeding  that  cynical 
smile,  went  on  with  his  story  to  the  bitter  end,  and  then  pro- 
ceeded further  to  relate  the  generous  offer  he  had  just  made  in 
the  library  to  Iris,  *•  which  my  cousin,"  he  said,  coldly,  "has 
been  ill-advised  enough,  I  regret  to  say,  to  decline  with  unneces- 
sary warmth  of  sentiment  and  language.  Under  these  painful 
circumstances,  unpleasant  as  such  a  course  must  be  to  me,  noth- 
ing remains  for  me  but  to  prove  the  new  will ;  and  lest  you 
should  ever  say  I'd  taken  you  by  surprise,  and  not  given  you  all 
due  warning,  I've  brought  the  document  with  me  here  to-day  j. 
that  you  may  iudge  for  yourself  of  its  authenticity  and  validity. 
This  is  it,"  and  he  took  it  from  the  table  afTectionately,  with  a 
wana  imile  of  parental  partiality— his  bantling,  his  favourite^ 


312 


TBK  TKNTI  Of  BHSM. 


his  own  pet  handiwork,  "  If  you'll  take  the  trouble  to  oast 
your  eye  down  that,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of  profound  convic- 
tion, •'  I  think  you'll  agree  with  me  that  Iris  would  have  done 
ar. better  for  herself  if  she'd  accepted  my  equitable,  and  even 
^'onerous  offer." 

Uncle  Tom  took  up  the  paper  from  the  table  with  the  same 
sceptical  and  supercilious  smile  as  ever.  This  tyro  to  suppose  he 
could  forge  a  will  that  would  baiBfle  the  acutest  and  most  experi- 
enced hand  in  the  whole  Probate  and  Divorce  Division  I  The 
thing  was  monstrous,  absurd,  incredible.  But  as  he  read  and 
read,  both  Eustace  Le  Marchant  and  Harold  Knyvett,  who  were 
standing  by  and  watching  his  features  closely,  perceived  a  change 
come  slowly  over  his  purple  face.  He  was  no  longer  amused  ; 
he  was  by  rapid  stages,  first  puzzled,  then  surprised  and  annoyed, 
then  vexed  and  baffled,  then  finally  angry,  and  very  indignant. 
That  he  should  show  his  anger,  Harold  knew  by  a  keen  intuition 
for  a  certain  sign  of  the  success  of  Iws  strategy.  If  the  will 
were  bad,  if  the  signature  were  doubtful,  if  a  flaw  had  been  sus- 
pected in  theiaw  of  the  case,  or  the  wording  of  the  documents, 
if  a  loophole  had  been  left  for  escape  anywhere,  that  old  fool 
Whitmarah,  with  his  professional  skill  and  his  legal  acumen, 
would  of  course  have  spotted  it ;  and  if  he  had  spotted  it,  he 
would  have  pounced  down  then  and  there,  with  the  savage  joy 
of  battle  in  his  keen  old  eyes,  upon  the  expectant  culprit.     But 


his  silence  and  his  wrath,  his  internal  fuming,  were 


auguries 


of 


\ 


good  for  Harold's  success  ;  the  greatest  authority  on  the  subject 
of  wills  in  all  England  had  no  weapon  left  but  impotent  rage 
with  which  to  meet  and  face  that  magnificent  device  of  his. 

Harold  twisted  the  top  button  off  its  thread  once  more  in  his 
transport  of  delight,  and  then  played,  for  a  change,  with  the 
empty  button-hole. 

'•  You  scoundrel  I"  Uncle  Tom  cried,  finding  words  at  last, 
and  rising  up  in  his  wrath,  with  an  eager  desire  to  strangle  the 
fallow  then  and  there,  as  he  sat  smiling  and  fidgeting  inanely 
before  him.  "  Don't  try  to  come  any  of  your  nonsense  over  me  1 
You  forged  this  will  yourself,  and  you  know  you  forged  it." 

Harold's  tliin  lips  curled  gracefully  up,  and  he  lowered  hia 
head  with  polite  sarcasm. 

•♦  That  will  be  for  a  Court  of  justice  in  England  to  determine," 
he  answered,  coldly. 

*♦  Did  he  forge  it,  Uncle  Tom  ?"  Iris  asked  from  her  comer, 
with  perfect  calmness,  turning  round  to  her  uncle.  •'  Are  you 
lurt  ib'8  A  forgery  ?    Can  you  be  quite  certain  about  it  V* 


ilpp"p>l 


^■•■•9BP^P<ilP""<^ 


^m 


Ttjf 


THE    TENTS   07    8HKM. 


818 


of 


ige 


tis 


ist, 


^ly 


••Quite  eertain,'*  Uncle  Tom  answered,  gasping  hard  for 
ti'eath.  But  he  wrote  with  a  pencil  on  the  back  of  an  envelope, 
which  he  handed  across  to  her  for  greater  security,  "  A  forgery, 
beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt,  my  dear,  but  the  cleverest  scoun- 
drel I  ever  knew  for  all  that.  There's  absolutely  nothintj  tan- 
gible to  go  upon.  It's  as  clever  as  sin.  Ha'il  prove  his  will,  and 
we  can  never  disprove  it." 

At  that  outward  and  visible  sign  of  the  old  man's  defeat, 
Harold  sat  and  chuckled  inwardly  to  himself. 

*•  It's  not  too  late  even  now,  Mr.  Whitmarsh,"  he  observed, 
in  a  low  and  gracious  tone.  "  I'm  open  still  to  negotiations.  If 
you'd  like  to  use  your  influence  with  Iris  on  the  subject " 

But  before  he  could  finish  that  sentence  in  his  cowardly  throat, 
Vernon  Blake  had  risen  from  his  place  in  the  corner,  and  come 
forward  all  aglow  with  fierce,  youthful  indignation. 

♦*  You  may  do  as  you  like  about  the  will."  the  painter  said, 
half  choking,  and  plantmg  himself  full  in  front  of  the  astonished 
Harold,  •'  but  if  you  dare  to  utter  another  word  to  insult  Miss 
Knyvett  by  your  disgraceful  ofifers " 

The  rest  was  unspoken,  but  a  significant  glance  at  the 
painter's  fist  efficiently  replaced  the  remainder  of  that  suppressed 
sentence. 

*•  That'll  do,  Blake,"*  Uncle  Tom  responded,  taken  aback  at 
this  well-meant  though  unexpected  interposition.  ••  The  fellow's 
proposals  will  not  ba  entertained.  But  we  don't  need  your  help 
in  solving  the  question,  thank  you.  To  forge  a  will  first, 
indeed,  and  then  think  he  can  force  a  girl  like  Iris  to  marry  him 
off  hand  on  the  strength  of  the  forgery  I  I'm  ashamed  of  the 
fool  for  Lis  ignorance  of  character  I" 

As  he  ispoke,  Ilarold  Knyvett  folded'up  the  forged  document 
with  trembling  fingers,  and  replaced  it  carefully  in  his  breast- 
pocket. •'  Very  well,  Mr.  Whitmarsh,"  he  said,  with  freezing 
frigidity,  "  you  reject  my  olive  branch  ;  you'll  be  sorry  for  it 
hereafter.  This  ia  war  now,  open  war,  with  all  of  you  ;  and  not 
by  my  fault.  I  shall  prove  the  will,  and  resume  my  property. 
Meanwhile,  under  the  present  unpleasant  circumstances,  it  must 
be  obvious  at  once  to  the  meanest  understanding  that  you  can 
none  of  you  accept  my  hospitality  any  longer.  I'll  ring  for  the 
carriage  to  take  your  luggage  round  at  once  to  the  Boyal." 

Before  he  could  reach  the  electric  bell  at  the  side,  however, 
Eustace  Le  Marchant,  who  had  for  some  time  been  whispering 
Apart  very  seriouply  in  a  corner  with  Meriem,  gave  a  meaning 
^l«ao«  and  .a  look  •£  query  toward  his  £abyl«  fianc$t,      Tb« 


ai4 


THE    TEKTS   OF   IHEM. 


beautiful  Algerian  answered  with  a  quiet  no^  of  assent.  Tbca 
Eustace  stepped  out  into  the  middle  of  the  room.  "  Stop,"  he 
cried,  in  a  very  stern  and  determined  voice.  "Don't  dare  to 
touch  this  lady's  bell,"  and  he  waved  his  hand  vaguely  sideways 
towards  Meriem.  *'  The  mistress  of  Sidi  Aia  empowers  me  to  for- 
bid you.  I,  too,  have  some  important  documents  here — of  earlier 
date,  but  of  greater  genuineness — that  may  serve  to  put  a  some- 
what different  complexion  upon  this  person's  action.  It  was  not 
our  intention  at  first  to  produce  them  at  all,  as  against  Miss 
Knyvett's  original  claim.  We  were  willing  that  she  should 
inherit  unopposed,  in  a  friendly  fashion ;  but  if  you  think  this 
person,  sir,"  and  he  turned  to  address  himself  to  Uncle  Tom  for 
a  moment,  "  is  likely  to  succeed  in  his  attempted  fraud,  it 
may  be  worth  while,  at  all  hazards, 
mediately  by  any  means  in  our  power 
I'll  read   them  over   to  you  all  first ; 


to  checkmate   him   im- 
These  are  the  papers, 
you  can  then  examine 


them  finally  at  your  leisure,  and  judge  for  yourself  of  their 
authenticity." 

Harold's  face  was  livid  with  excitement  now.  He  clutched  the 
buttonhole  hard  with  all  his  might.  lie  had  neglected  one 
chance,  and  that  chance  had  defeated  him  I  He  saw  the  whole 
truth  in  the  twinkling  of  eye.  Tlio  barefooted  native  girl  was 
Clarence  Knyvett's  daughter  and  heiress. 

But  not  legitimate  1  Oh,  no,  not  legitimate!  By  the  law  of 
England,  certainly  not  legitimate  I  It  was  all  to  no  avail  I  It 
would  profit  them  nothing  !  In  the  eye  of  the  law,  she  was  no- 
body's daughter.  Thank  heaven  for  that  charming  obliquity  •/ 
the  law  1    Blaukstone  for  ever  I    Ijong  hve  ii^usticel 


■I 


tMM   TAMXS  or   tiU£M. 


iid 


CHAPTER  LL 


CHECK    AGAIN. 

Blowlt  Eustace  nnfolrlpd  the  little  bundle  of  documents  he 
held  in  his  hand,  and  laid  them  one  by  one  on  the  table  before 
him.  They  were  worn  and  ragged  to  the  last  degree,  mere  rough 
memoranda  jotted  down  on  thin  sheets  of  French  foreign  note  ; 
and  they  were  folded  very  small  into  numerous  squares,  so  much 
rubbed  at  the  edges  by  long  wear  that  they  hardly  held  together 
in  places  where  the  strain  was  greatest.  Uncle  Tom  regarded 
these  doubtful  allies  with  a  suspicious  glance.  Remarkably 
flimsy  materials  indeed,  he  thought  to  himself  silently,  to  lay 
before  the  Probate  and  Divorce  Division  I 

Eustace,  however,  undeterred  by  his  scrutiny,  proceeded  next 
to  produce  from  his  pocket  a  broken  Kabyle  charm — a  tiny  metal 
box  which  Iris  at  once  recognised  with  a  start  as  the  one  that 
Meriem  had  worn  habitually  round  her  neck  in  the  mountains  at 
Beni-Merzoug.  "  These  documents,"  he  said,  demonstratively, 
turning  to  Uncle  Tom  with  a  quiet  smile,  "  were  found  enclosed 
in  that  little  box,  which  you  see  before  you  now  on  the  table. 
The  box  was  given  to  Meriem  by  her  father,  Clarence  Knyvett, 
who  strongly  urged  her  never  on  any  account  to  lose  it,  or  part 
with  it.  It  was  unfortunately  broken  by  the  accident  with  the 
train,  and  picked  up  by  me  on  the  line,  near  Beni-Mansour,  in 
its  present  damaged  and  crushed  condition.  I  then  for  the  first 
time  became  aware  of  the  nature  of  the  papers  it  contained. 
Meriem  for  her  part  had  ascertained  their  importance  some 
weeks  earlier,  but  had  been  unwilling,  for  Miss  Knyvett's  sake, 
to  disclose  their  contents  to  me,  or  to  any  one.  Nor  did  I  in  turn 
contemplate  disclosing  them  till  this  very  morning.  We  had 
made  up  our  minds  not  to  disturb  Miss  Knyvett's  title  to  Sir 
Arthur's  estate.  Under  existing  circumstances,  however,  and  to 
defeat  Mr.  Harold  Knyvett's  designs — upon  which  I,  for  my  part, 
offer  no  opinion — we  think  ourselves  fully  justified  to  day  in 
bringing  th«m  forward  for  your  oousiddratiou. " 


SiC 


Ttai  tauvs  or  aw*!!. 


H«  looked  at  Meriem,  who  nodded  •.  silent  approval  once  mort. 
Then  he  took  up  the  first  docuin*  '{  read  it  aloud.     *'  It's  a 

statement,"  he  said,  '*  by  Merit  *  ther,  Clarence  Knyvett/ 
explaining  the  circumstances  undt.  .iiich  he  became,  to  all  in- 
tents and  purposes,  a  Kabyle  in  Algeria,  and  the  reasons  he  had 
for  so  disposing  of  the  other  documents  found  with  it." 

Everybody  leant  forward  with  hushed  attention.  And  this  was 
the  statement  to  which  Iris,  Uncle  Tom,  and  Harold  Knyvett 
listened,  each  in  his  own  way,  with  breathless  interest. 

"  I,  Clarence  Knyvett,  formerly  cornet  of  the  8th  Hussars  in 
the  British  service,  and  lately,  under  the  name  of  Joseph  Le- 
boutillier,  a  private  in  the  8rd  Chasseurs  d'Afrique,  write  this 
last  account  of  my  life  and  misfortunes  for  the  benefit  of  my  only 
daughter,  Meriera,  to  whose  care  I  now  confide  it,  in  explanation 
of  my  accompanying  will  and  annexed  documents.  The  nature 
of  the  space  to  which  I  must  entrust  them  compels  brevity.  1 
left  England  under  strong  suspicion,  which  I  could  not  refute,  of 
having  fo)'ged  my  father,  Admiral  Knyvett's,  name  to  sundry 
notes  of  hand,  bills,  and  acceptances.  I  solemnly  swear  before 
the  face  of  heaven  that  I  did  not  forgo  one  of  these  papers ;  that 
[  received  tliem  all  to  be  cashed  on  his  account  from  my  brother, 
Charles  Wilbcrforce  Knyvett,  whom  I  solemnly  believe  to  have 
I'oiged  them  himself;  that  I  afcepted  them  in  good  faith,  on  his 
i-epresentation,  as  bearing  my  father's  genuine  signature;  that  I 
believed  a  detailed  story  he  palmed  off  upon  me  as  to  why  they 
had  been  uttered  and  why  he  did  not  desire  to  cash  them  in  per- 
son ;  that  1  foolishly  accepted  part  of  the  proceeds  as  a  loan  from 
him  to  assist  me  in  the  payment  of  debts  I  ought  never  to  have 
contracted  ;  and  that  by  so  doing  I  left  myself  without  any 
means  of  disproving  the  vile  accusation  which  my  brother  Charles 
at  last  permitted  to  be  brought  by  my  father  against  me  in  the 
matter." 

Uncle  Tom  looked  up  with  a  glance  of  supreme  contempt  at 
Ilia  enemy,  Harold. 

"Like  father,  like  son,"  he  murmured,  half-inaudibly.  "He 
was  always  a  sneak,  Charles  Wilberforce  Knyvett." 

"My  brother  Charles,"  Eustace  went  on  reading,  "  had  laid 
his  plans  so  det'piy,  and  woven  his  wobs  around  me  so  cunningly, 
that  I  found  it  impossible,  when  the  exposure  came,  to  make  my 
father  believe  the  truth,  though  I  afterwards  wrote  him  more 
than  one  letter  in  the  depth  of  my  misery  which  I  trust  may 
have  opened  his  eyes  before  he  died  to  the  true  state  of  the  case 
between  us.     For  the  time,  however,  he  believed  Charles,  and 


tU   TXNTS   or    SHEM. 


817 


Le 
|re 

1    *' 

id 


only  ftIlow«d  m%  to  esoapt  proBecntion,  which  I  knaw  must 
almost  infallibly  go  -  against  me — so  incredible  would  my  true 
story  have  sounded  to  any  jury — by  conniving;  at  my  escape 
under  disguise  from  England.  It  would  have  been  impossible, 
indeed,  for  me  to  set  up  the  true  defence  without  making  admis- 
sions about  a  lady,  a  member  of  my  family — not  discreditable 
but  highly  undesirable — which  a  sense  of  honour  imperatively, 
precluded  me  from  ever  making.  Under  these  unhappy  circum- 
stances, I  bad  no  course  open  to  me  but  to  flee  the  country,  and 
take  refuge  in  France,  where  I  enhsted  for  my  bread  in  the 
Third  Chasseurs." 

•'  A  harum-scarum  fellow,"  Uncle  Tom  murmured  low :  "  but 
good-hearted  after  all  I  I  never  thought  him  criminal ;  I  neyer 
thought  him  criminal." 

Meriem's  eyes  were  dim  with  tears  as  Eustace  read ;  but  ihe 
held  Iris's  hand  tight  in  her  own  meanwhile,  and  Iris,  in  return, 
stroked  her  soft  arm  tenderly.  The  story  went  on  in  brief  lan- 
guage to  describe  the  circumstances  under  which  Clarence  Ejiy- 
vett  felt  himself  bound  in  turn  to  desert  from  the  French  colours 
during  what  seemed  to  him  the  essentially  unjust  Eabyle  war, 
and  thus,  of  pure  necessity,  to  cast  in  his  lot  with  the  half-savage 
Mohammedan  mountain  people. 

**  By  no  fault  of  my  own,"  he  wrote  pathetically,  '•  I  thus 
found  myself  at  last  proscribed  and  an  outlaw  before  the  eyes  of 
the  two  most  powerful  and  civilised  nations  of  all  Christendom, 
,  and  compelled  for  my  own  safety  outwardly  to  conform  to  the 
distasteful  rites  and  usages  of  Islam.  Hunted  to  earth,  and 
banished  for  ever  from  home,  I  accepted  the  inevitable.  I  be- 
came as  a  Kabyle,  and  took  to  myself  a  wife  from  among  mj' 
adopted  countrymen.  But  not  knowing  what  disposition  of  his 
property  my  father  might  make,  and  anxious  to  secure  to  my 
children  the  benefit,  if  any,  accruing  to  them  under  his  possible 
wiU,  I  induced  my  wife,  after  going  through  the  native  Kabyle 
ceremony  with  me  in  her  own  village,  to  be  secretly  married  to 
nrj  at  the  Mairie  at  St.  Cloud,  in  accordance  with  the  lex  loci 
i\ien  and  there  prevailing  in  a  manner  that  would  be  recognised 
as  undoubtedly  valid  by  any  English  court  of  law. 

Eustace  paused,  and  looked  at  Uncle  Tom  significantly.  Uncle 
Tom  arranged  his  necktie  with  much  studied  care,  and  glanced 
at  his  boots  with  a  non-committing  glance,  much  wondering 
what  might  next  be  coming  out  of  this  very  unexpected  and  up- 
setting dooumenU 


i)l« 


THS    TKNTI   or   UOll. 


"  So  Mericm's  Uncle  Clarence'i  daughter  afUr  all,  in  Uw  u  fai 
faot !  "  Irii  exclaimed ,  fervently. 

*'  Stop  a  moment,  stop  a  moment  my  dear  I  "  Uncle  Tom  in- 
terposed, with  a  frightened  face.  '*  Not  so  fast,  Iris,  not  so  fast, 
I  beg  of  you.  The  register  of  the  Etat  Civil  at  St.  Cloud  was 
completely  destroyed  in  the  last  insurrection — before  our  own — 
and  the  marriage  may  therefore  be  provable  o?  not — ^provable  or 
not,  according  to  circumstances." 

With  a  quiet  smile,  Eustace  read  on  the  paper  to  the  very  end, 
where  Clarence  Knyvett,  at  length,  declared  how  he  went  forth 
with  his  life  in  his  hands  on  his  las^  expedition,  ignorant  whether 
he  would  ever  return  alive  or  not,  and  anxious  for  the  safety  of 
his  only  daughter.  "  It's  attested,  you  observe,"  he  said,  hand- 
ing it  over  for  examination  to  Uncle  Tom,  "  by  two  priests  of 
!.he  Mission  of  St.  Cloud,  as  having  been  deposed  to  before  them 
by  Joseph  Leboutillier  ;  and  it's  also  sworn  to  as  a  true  state- 
ment—  unexamined  judicially,  comms  papier  de  J'amilU,  by  U 
iiiinnne  Y'usuf,  h'ubyU,  before  the  Juge  de  Paix  at  Palaestro,  in 
'  Irande  Kabylie." 

"  So  I  see,"  Unc.„  Tom  responded,  drily.  As  yet  uncertain 
whither  this  thing  might  lead,  he  was  disinclined  to  commit  mm- 
sclf  to  anvthinf^  definite. 

Dut  Harold  Knyvett  looked  down  at  them  all  with  a  fixed 
sneer.  *•  1  should  like  immensely  to  see  the  proof  of  this  alleged 
marriage,"  he  remarked,  scornfully. 

**  You  shall,"  Eustace  answered,  with  great  promptitude. 
"  Here  it  is,  you  observe,  a  sworn  copy  extracted  from  the  Actes  ' 
de  VEtat  Civil  de  St.  Cloud- en- Kabylie,  before  the  insurrection, 
attesting  both  the  civil  marriage  of  le  novime  Yusuf,  before  the 
Mairc  of  that  commune,  and,  on  a  separate  form,  the  religious 
ceremony  before  the  mission  priests  of  Our  Lady  of  Africa." 

Uncle  Tom  took  the  two  little  documents  up  and  examined 
them  critically. 

**  It  may  possibly  be  a  valid  enough  contract,"  he  answered, 
with  dubious  and  oracular  reticence.  As  a  matter  of  fiact  he  saw 
at  a  glance  they  v^ere  simply  unassailable. 

♦•  The  third  paper  I  have  to  produce  here  is  not  a  legal  one,'' 
Eustace  continued,  smiling'.  •'  It's  a  certificate  of  the  baptism 
of  Meriem  Mary,  daughter  of  Clarence  Knyvett,  otherwise 
"^''  '!"?uf,  otherwise  Joseph  Leboutillier,  by  Brother  Antoine,  called 
t       Paternoster,  a  mission  priest  of  the  same  Order." 

'  Am  I  a  Christian  then,  after  all  ?  "  Meriem  cried  out,  with 


mmmmm 


mm 


V««    TKNTt    or    IHXK. 


819 


pi 


a  gndden  bunt  of  comprehension  as  to  the  meaning  of  this 
hitherto  raisunderstooil  docuinont.  •*  Did  Yusuf  make  a  Chris- 
tian of  me  when  I  wha  a  iiulu  child  witlu>ut  my  ever  kituwing 
itf 

"  Yes,  dearest,"  Iris  answered,  oxamining  the  certificate,  and 
kissing  her  cousin's  iorcliead  totidurly.  '*  And  if  Yusuf  hadn't, 
you'd  have  been  one  of  yourself,  for  jnobody  could  eve"  make  a 
r«iAl  Mohammedan  of  you." 

•*  Thank  heaven  for  that,"  Mericm  cried,  with  a  sigh,  "  for 
e\er  since  I  heard  of  that  horrid  business  down  there  at  St. 
Cioud,  I've  longed  to  be  a  Christian  like  you.  Iris." 

**  The  fourth  document,"  Eustace  went  on,  with  calm  persist- 
ence, "  is  the  last  will  and  testament  of  Clarence  Knyvett,  duly 
signed  and  attested  with  the  English  attestation  clause  before 
tvto  witnesses,  according  to  which  pa[)er  the  tfistator  leaves  and 
bequeaths " 

There  was  a  dead  pause,  and  all  listened  eagerly.  Uncle  Tom 
in  particular  being  keen  as  a  beagle  on  this  last  most  important 
point  of  all. 

"  Everything  he  dies  possessed  of,  real  or  personal,  in  equal 
parts,  as  respects  one  moiety  to  his  daughter  Meriem  Mary,  and 
as  respects  the  other  moiety  in  proportional  shares  to  the  child- 
ren of  his  beloved  brother,  the  Uev.  liegiiiiild  Knyvett,  M.A.,  to 
the  total  exclusion  of  his  two  brothers,  Arthur  and  Charles,  or 
then  43scen(  a  its.' 

Witli  an  eager  movement,  Uncle  Torn  took  t!ie  will  anc*  glanced 
over  it  very  carefully.  As  he  looked,  his  face  grew  brighter  and 
brighter.  It  was  clear  he  accepted  its  authenticity  oif  hand. 
"Half  a  loaf's  better  than  no  bread.  Iris,  my  dear,"  he  muttered 
at  last,  with  a  smile  of  tvhcf.  '•  You're  entitled  to  a  moiety. 
As  far  as  it  goes  that's  Ingiily  sutisl'actory.  Mr.  Le  Marchant, 
vour  hand.  1  beg  your  pai-don.  I  think  these  documents  will 
hold  water.  Harold  Knyvett,  you  ini'eriiul  scoundrel,  1  fancy 
we've  cooked  your  goose  at  last.  Your  I'orgery  was  a  confound- 
edly clever  forgery,  but  it  hasn't  jjiolitcd  you  much  after  ail. 
Things  are  not  as  goo>l  us  tJiey  might  be,  (piite.  Iris  ;  but  if  the 
Claimant's  really,  as  these  papers  hwau  to  show  tlie  lawful  issue 
of  your  Uncle  Clarence  Knyvett's  body — and  she  nuiy  be,  she 
may  be — why,  we  can't  grudge  her  half — wc  niilly  ciiii't  grudge 
it  to  her.  And  they've  come  in  most  ofipoituiu'ly,  I  must  con- 
fess, to  cut  that  desperate  forger's  tijroat ;  tor  I'll  allow,  mj 
3dar,"  and  his  voice  tiroi';:»-d  low,  "  that  hi*  forger)    would  hav« 


820 


VHB   TENTB   OF    HUElt. 


been  tbe  very  hardest  to  fight  against  I've  ever  known  in  the 
whole  of  my  long  and  unique  legal  experience." 

Iris  rose,  and  folded  Meriem  in  her  arms.  ••  Then  we  each 
take  half  I  "  she  murmured,  joyfully. 

"  I  wanted  you  to  have  all,  Iris,"  Meriem  answered  through 
her  tears,  pressing  her  cousin  tight  to  her  bosom  in  return;  ♦•  but 
when  the  wicked  man  tried  to  get  it  all  for  himself,  Eustace  said 
to  me — and  I  quite  agreed  with  him — it  was  the  only  waj; 
possibl*  to  defeat  hig  wickadneijs  1  "  ^ 


W¥T~ 


p-""""iBr 


"^Tl~~-Ti  ■  •fmm' 


t»   TBMTi  0»  fSia* 


M] 


the 

jacb 

ugh 
but 
said 


t  « 


( 


CHAPTER  LIL 


OHJilCKMATII. 


Habold  Knyvett  looked  on  stealthily  with  a  deadly  stare  in 
his  cold  blue  eyes.  The  corners  of  his  set  mouth  were  twitching 
horribly  now.  ♦*  It's  all  very  well,  this  hugging  and  embracing," 
he  exclaimed,  with  a  sneer — all  his  native  brutality  breaking  out 
at  last — "  but  you've  me  to  reckon  with,  you  must  recollect, 
you've  me  to  reckon  with  ;  and  I'm  not  to  be  put  off  with  miracu- 
lous discoveries  of  hidden  wills  in  a  Kabyle  girl's  necklace,  1  can 
tell  you  that.  Make  up  your  minds  for  a  good  battle-royal.  I 
shall  fight  you  every  inch — every  word — every  letter  of  it." 

Uncle  Tom  had  chosen  his  side  now,  and  meant  to  stick  to  it 
like  a  man  at  last.  "You  can't,"  he  said  shortly.  "You'll 
find  it's  no  use.  Those  documents  would  carry  any  case  in 
England." 

Harold  Knyvett  glared  back  at  him  with  eyes  like  a  tiger's  on 
the  point  to  spring.  "  They're  forgeries,"  he  cried,  in  an  icy 
voice  "  mean,  disgraceful,  inartistic  forgeries  !  That  fellow  got 
them  up,"  and  he  pointed  with  his  forefinger  contemptuously  at 
Eustace.  "  I  can  see  it  in  his  face.  He's  a  miserable  forger. 
And  he's  got  them  up  very  badly,  too.  He's  copied  the  signa- 
tures. That's  easy  enough  to  do.  Any  fool  can  copy  a  signature, 
you  know.  I  could  copy  'em  myself.  I  could  copy  Sir  Arthur's 
— "  his  bloodshot  eye  was  roving  wildly  round  the  room  now,  "  as 
soon  as  look  at  it.  I'll  do  it  before  you,  if  you  like,  j  ust  to  show  you 
how  it's  done.  TJie  difficulty's  not  there  ;  it's  to  make  your 
forgery  reasonable  and  vraisemhUihle ;  and  this  fool  hasn't 
managed  that  at  all ;  he's  invented  an  absurd,  cock-and-bull, 
melodramatic  story  that  no  jury'd  believe ;  whereas  here's  my 
will — Sir  Arthur's  own  hand — at  Aix,  you  observe-  all  of  them 
dead — two  indubitable  witnesses.  Ha,  ha,  ha  I  Not  a  shado^^ 
of  doubt  about  that.    The  veritable  thing!     Just  look  at  ii 


TH^   TENTS    OF    SaKM. 


Tonrself.  A  beautiful  will !  An  irreproachable  document !  ** 
He  could  hardly  oontrol  himself  with  excitement  and  aiif^itr  now.' 
He  was  drunk  with  rage.  Ue  drew  the  roll  like  a  dagger,  and 
brandished  it  in  their  faces. 

Suddenly,  with  a  start,  he  grew  cool  once  more.  A  storm  of 
conflicting  emotions  seemed  to  be  sweeping  through  him.  "Why, 
you're  taking  it  for  granted,"  he  cried,  again  scornful,  "  tliat  this 
fellow  Clarence,  if  he  ever  came  to  Algeria  at  all — which  wo  none 
of  us  know — outhved  Alexander — the  original  leg[at6e,  the  lirHt 
inheritor.  Unless  he  did,  he  never  inherited,  and  never  could 
dispose.  Don't  go  too  fast.  It  doesn't  all  Ue  between  this 
woman  and  Iris,  as  you  seem  to  think.  You've  me  to  reckon 
with.  Me,  MB,  ME,  to  reckon  with  !  " — striking  his  breast  liard, 
with  insane  intensity — ••  and  you'll  find  me  devilish  tougli  pe  ■ 
son,  too,  for  any  one  to  fight  against." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  Uncle  Tom  resumed,  turning  over  the 
papers  critically  once  more,  with  his  experienced  glance. 
**  We've  satisfied  ourselves  about  all  that  long  ago,  you  may  be 
sure.  Do  you  think  I  took  up  practice  in  the  i'rubate  and 
Divorce  Division  yesterday  ?  No,  no,  Harold  Knyvett,  don't 
bluster  any  longer;  the  case  is  doad ;  you  may  retire  gracefully. 
You're  not  in  this  cause  any  more,  I  assure  you.  Your  forgcsd 
will  is  so  much  waste  paper.  (Jlever,  I  admit,  but  inoH'cctual, 
ineffectual.  Iris,  my  dear,  will  vou  do  nie  the  favour  to  ring  tlio 
bell,  and  order  your  carriage  to  take  Mr.  Harold  Knyvett's  alTuir.s 
round  to  the  Jtoyal  I  .  ,  .  .  But  before  you  go,  Mr. 
Harold,  let  me  just  explain  the  case  succinctly  to  you.  Clnnmee 
Knyvett,  alias  Joseph  Leboutellier,  alias  Yusuf  the  KabyJc,  on 
indubitable  evidence,  outlived  his  brother  Alexander,  as  I  ut  first 
to  my  intense  dissatisfaction  discovered,  by  several  weoks — quite 
long  enough  to  inherit,  and  therefore,  quite  long  enough  to  dis- 
pose legally  of  his  own  pro})erty.  Till  to-day,  I  was  under  the 
impression  that  he  died  intestate,  without  lawful  issue,  in  wliicli 
case,  under  your  grandfather's  will — tlifit  most  extraordiruiry 
will — so  unsafe  not  to  employ  a  professional  hand  ! — the  estate 
would  have  descended  in  due  course  to  his  brother  Arthur.  I 
now  learn  from  these  papers  supplied  by  Miss  Meriem  it  was  not 
so.  The  papers,  I  judge,  are  undoubtedly  genuine,  and  above 
suspicion.  They  have  not  been  thrust  upon  us  by  tlu'ir  present 
possessors.  1'hey  were  only  produced  under  stress  of  necessity 
to  baffle  you.  That  guarantees  and  corroborates  their  intrinsic 
credibility.     I  accept  them  as  valuable  allies  against  you.     Ltl 


■■p 


ffHX   TXNT8   or   8HEk. 


828 


■\ 


' 


I 


as  nse  plain  words.  They  nullify  your  forgery.  Sir  Arthur 
never  owned  the  estate  at  all.  He  had  nothing  to  leave  but  his 
savings,  if  any,  from  bis  half-pay.  bidi  Aia  he  held  as  part  of 
the  trust.  Clarence  Knyvett  was  all  along  the  real  possessor. 
And  Clarence  Knyvett  leaves  his  fortune  in  equal  shares,  one  half 
to  his  daughter — my  dear,  your  hand  ;  thank  you — and  one  half 
to  his  niece  and  mine,  your  cousin  Iris,  whom  you  tried  to  defraud 
by  your  vile  machinations.  These  papers  prove  the  entire  case. 
I  never  saw  a  clearer  set  of  documents  in  my  life.  We  can  settle 
it  between  us,  Meriem,  when  we  get  back  to  England,  in  a 
friendly  suit.  And  you,  sir,  you  may  go  to  Bath  with  your 
forgery  I " 

The  word  Bath,  having  been  loudly  but  somewhat  inarticu- 
lately pronounced  by  Mr.  Whitmarsh,  cannot  be  guaranteed  as 
textually  correct  by  the  present  chronicler.  Indeed,  it  seems 
not  improbable,  from  internal  evidence,  that  Uncle  Tom,  in 
his  warmth,  really  made  use  of  a  somewhat  hotter  and  strong 
expression. 

But  Harold  Knyvett's  hapd  trembled  fiercely  now.  His  face 
was  a  horrible  sight  to  behold.  Disappointment,  rage,  mean  baf- 
fled ambition,  all  were  pictured  upon  his  distorted  features  at 
that  moment.  He  saw  at  a  glance  that  everything  was  lost. 
He  had  played  his  trump  card  and  had  been  overtrumped  out- 
right by  a  barefooted  Kabyle  girl.  This  wretched  conspiracy  of 
truth  against  a  lie,  of  honour  against  dupHcity,  of  fact  against 
forgery,  had  unaccountably  triumphed  I  His  cleverness  and  his 
skill  had  all  been  set  at  naught  by  a  dead  man's  will  and  a  good 
man's  forethought.  He  was  mad,  mad,  mad  with  wrath  and  in- 
dignation. Can  months  of  patient  toil  thus  go  for  nothing  ? 
Can  hours  of  dishonest  industry  thus  pass  unrewarded  ?  "lis 
an  unjust  world,  where  an  able  forger  isn't  even  allowed  to  come 
by  his  own  that  he  has  plotted  for  so  cleverly.  If  there  had 
been  a  fire  in  the  room  Harold  Knyvett  would  have  seized  those 
disgusting,  discomposing  truth  telling  documents,  and  flung 
them  into  it  with  wild  inconsequence.  As  there  wasn't,  a  sav- 
age thought  surged  up  fiercely  in  his  mind.  He  would  chew 
them  up  small  and  swallow  them  wholesale  I  He  made  a  mad 
dart  across  the  room  to  the  table  where  they  lay,  with  all  the 
wild  energy  of  rising  insanity.  Eustace  and  Venion  Blake  anti- 
cipated in  part  his  savage  design,  and  caught  him  by  the  shoul- 
ders with  stern  resolve  before  he  could  lay  his  trembling;  haodi 
upon  the  precious  papers. 


■w 


m  nuiTi  Of  f  nai 


"Tom  him  out,"  Unole  Tom  said,  in  a  ealm  TOice,  ai  retri-^ 
bntive  justioe.  But  there  was  no  need  for  that.  Harold  Eny- 
▼ett,  baulked  even  of  that  last  revenge,  turned  slowly  of  his  own 
accord  to  the  door  and  went  down  the  steps,  crushed  and  broken. 
As  he  left  the  room,  quivering  from  head  to  foot  like  a  whipped 
cor,  hiB  face  was  livid  with  strange  distortions.  Iris  saw  with  a 
horror  not  unmixed  with  disgust,  that  he,  a  Enjvett  and  gentle- 
man bom,  looking  back  at  his  enemies  who  had  fairly  conquered 
him  in  just  fight,  lolled  out  his  tongue,  hke  a  street  boy  or  the 
down  at  a  circus.  It  was  not  till  long  months  after  Meriem  and 
■he  were  both  happily  married  that  they  learned  the  truth,  the 
horrible  truth  which  Uncle  Tom  and  their  husbands  knew  before 
nightfall.  Harold  Enyvett  went  forth  from  Sidi  Aia  that  after- 
noon  to  Yate-Westbury's  madhouse  a  raving  maniac. 

Af  he  left  the  room  Uncle  Tom  came  forward,  and  gave  his 
hand,  with  frank  apology  to  Eustace.  "  I've  wronged  yon,  Mr. 
Le  Marchant,"  he  said  cordially.  **  I  see  you're  a  friend.  I 
took  you  for  an  enemy.  But  I'm  not  too  old  yet  to  acknowledge 
a  mistake.  I  regret  my  error.  Now,  why  didn't  you  produce 
those  documents  earlier  ?  " 

**  Because,"  Meriem  put  in,  with  her  transparent  simplicity, 
"  I  didn't  wish  it.  I  told  him  not  to.  I  wanted  Iris  to  have  ill 
the  money,  as  I  promised,  and  I  thought  Eustace  and  I  would  be 
happy  without  it." 

"  Eustace  and  you  1  **  Uncle  Tom  exclaimed,  with  a  sudden 
merry  twinkle  in  the  comer  of  his  eye.  "  Whew  I  Whew  I  So 
that's  the  way  the  wind  blows,  after  all,  ii  it  ?  Upon  my  soul, 
I  never  thought  of  that.  Bemarkably  blind  of  me — a  man  of 
my  age.  I  took  you  for  a  fortune-hunter,  Le  Marchant.  I  was 
wrong  there,  I  own ;  but,  after  all,  I  wasn't  so  much  out ;  for 
even  now,  it  seems,  you'll  marnr  the  heiress.*' 

**  Against  his  will,  though,  Uncle  Tom,"  Iris  cried,  enthusias- 
tically. **  Here's  Meriem's  been  telling  me  all  about  it.  And, 
oh  !  they've  both  behaved  so  beautifolly  <  How  much  you've 
misjudged  them,  you  dear,  dreadful  old  ancle  1  Why,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  Harold  producing  this  forged  will,"  and  she 
tossed  aside  that  precious  document  carelessly ;  for  Harold  had 
actually  left  his  bantling  behind  him,  in  his  blank  despair; 
"  Meriem  was  never  going  to  show  us  those  papers  at  all,  and 
Mr.  Le  Marchant  was  going  to  acquiesce  in  her  never  showing 
tiMm  1    Kow»  uncle  dear,  don't  you  jnai  call  that  46Toti^  f  ** 


m 


i« 


m  mm  ov  naiir 


Unole  Tom  Boized  both  thoir  hands  in  his  with  ferronr,  and 
pofitiyely  went  so  far,  in  an  access  of  penitence,  as  to  stoop 
down  and  kissed  that  distinctly  good-looking  girl,  the  Claimant, 
on  her  smooth,  high  forehead.  "My  dear,"  he  remarked,  in  an 
apologetic  tone,  patting  her  cheek  with  his  hand,  "  if  ever  you 
practise  as  long  as  I've  done — which  isn't  hkely — in  the  Probate 
and  Divorce  Division  in  England,  yon  may  be  excused  for  taking 
as  a  general  lule,  the  lowest  possible  view  of  human  nature,  and 
all  its  moti'^^GS.  That  there's  anything  in  the  way  of  the  milk 
of  human  kindness  left  uncurdled  in  my  mind  at  all,  does  high 
credit,  I  assure  you,  to  my  original  disposition." 

"And  when  Iris  and  Vernon  are  married "  Meriem  began, 

innocently. 

"  God  bless  my  soul,  what's  that  ?"  Uncle  Tom  exclaimed, 
with  a  burst,  turning  round  upon  her  sharply.  "  Iris  and  who  ? 
What — him — the  painter-fellow  ?  Why,  my  dear  Miss  Meriem, 
or  whatever  else  your  heathenish  name  is,  who  on  earth  put 
such  a  ridiculous  notion  as  that  into  your  pretty  head  now  ?" 

Meriem  stood  back,  all  covered  with  confusion.  But  Iris, 
blushing  somewhat,  yet  with  a  certain  not  ungraceful  pride  on 
her  dainty  little  features,  came  forward  with  Vernon  Blake, 
looking  perhaps  a  triile  awkward  and  guilty  about  the  c^^es. 

"  Uncle  Tom,"  she  said,  shyly,  "  Meriem's  quite  right.  Vernon 
and  1  have  arranged  that  part  of  our  affairs  privately  between 
ourselves,  without  any  assistance,  and  we  think  we  understand 
one  another  now  altogether.  So  Meriem  suggests,  as  a  first 
rough  idea  for  the  division  of  the  estate,  that  Vernon  and  I 
should  keep  Sidi-Aia,  while  she  and  Mr.  Le  Marchant  take  the 
villa  at  Aix  for  themselves  to  live  in." 

Uncle  Tom's  hair  stood  on  end  with  surprise — partly  because 
he  ran  his  fat  hand  through  it  once  or  twice  abstractedly. 

"God  bless  my  soul,"  he  exclaimed  once  more  in  a  puzzled 
way,  "that  innocent-faced  painter  fellow  who  never  looked  as  if 
he  could  say  Bch  to  a  goose — that  hs  should  have  gone  and 
executed  a  fiank  movement  in  this  way  i  Who  the  dickens 
would  have  thought  he  had  it  in  him  ?  Who  the  dickens  would 
have  supposed  it  was  he  that  was  after  her?  Who  the  dickens 
would  have  imagined  she'd  ever  take  him  ?  And  that  I  should 
all  along  have  been  keeping  my  weather-eye  fixed  firm  on  the 
other  one  I  .  .  .  Well,  well,  Iris,  it's  your  own  affair.  You 
take  the  law  into  your  own  hands  yourself  as  a  rule ;  and  all  I 
can  say  is  if  your  man  turns  out  one  half  as  decent  a  ohap  as  tka 


826 


TUB    TENTS   OF    BHEM. 


fellow  I  did'nt  want  you  to  marry  seems  to  have  done,  you'll 
never  have  any  cause  to  be  ashamed  of  him.  Though  you  will 
admit,  it  does  upset  a  man's  calculations  most  confoundedly  1" 

'*  ^nd,  Iris  dear,"  Mrs.  Knyvett  ejaculated  with  a  sigh^  glanc- 
ing round  the  cabinets  and  tables  uneasily,  "do  you  know  I 
really  do  believe  'Harold  never  after  all  brought  over  my 
bronchitis  kettle !" 

THE   END. 


nu 


